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THE 


Flame in the Socket 

OR 

A VALUABLE LIFE 

i ^ V 

A Novel 


BY ADELINE SERGEANT 

Author of “The Lady Charlotte,” Etc. , 





Chicago and New York : 
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, 


PUBLISHERS. 



the library of 
CONGRESS, 
Two Cowes Recciveo 

may. 29 1901 

Cowthioht entry 

Zq.tCfot 

CLASS ^XXa N«. 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1897, by Rand, McNally & Co. 
Copyright, 1901, by Rand, McNally & Co. 


A NOVEL, 

By ADELINE SERGEANT. 


CHAPTER I. 

NUMBER SIXTY-THREE. 

“You’re the sixty-third applicant,” said Miss Keturah 
Kettlewell with some tartness, “and I’m quite sure that I 
cannot interview sixty-four.” 

Miss Kettlewell had once been a handsome woman; but 
it must be confessed that Time had committed some rav- 
ages upon her beauty. She was sixty years of age and 
looked older; her teeth had fallen out, and her fine nose 
nearly met her prominent chin; her figure was bent, and 
her pale sunken face was covered by innumerable small 
wrinkles which gave her a look of age. Had not her dai;k 
eyes been still so bright she would have looked insignifi- 
cant, but those keen, flashing orbs seemed to see every- 
thing — to know everything — to make her powerful and 
important, a person of whom the world must stand in 
aw'e. 

The world generally did stand in awe of Miss Keturah 
Kettlewell. In her presence, at any rate. Behind her 
back, the world was apt to laugh at her, but never when 
she was within hearing. For her sharp tongue and her 
bright eyes made her formidable; and, besides, she was 
very, very rich. It is not easy to laugh at a person who 
has at least fifteen thousand pounds a year. 


6 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Of course she had a beautiful old house of her own, 
with a terrace and a walled garden, and a park; with fine 
old rooms and a gallery full of pictures; hut it was char- 
acteristic of her that she shut herself up in one corner of 
it, and declared that it was much too big for her, and that 
she should like to pull it down. Especially did she say 
that if was too big when her one beloved nephew quitted 
England after an unfortunate love-affair which made him 
restlessly anxious to see the world; and then she evolved 
the idea of a companion — an idea which resulted in the 
placing of an advertisement in the papers, and the appli- 
cation of at least three hundred ladies, who were all will- 
ing to read aloud, to play the piano, to sew, to mend, to 
make, to be musical and cheerful on fifty pounds a year. 
Miss Kettlewell saw sixty-two applicants, and at the sixty- 
third she determined to stop. 

“^My brain is becoming perfectly addled after seeing so 
many women, young and old,” she delivered herself. “I 
never was fond of women; I think them a great mistake. 
And they are all alike. The young girl with her curls, 
and the old maid with her spectacles — ” here she looked 
severely at the last candidate for the office, who hap- 
pened to be about forty and to wear eyeglasses — “are 
equally deserving of reprobation. They gossip and snig- 
ger and tell tales — ” 

“Excuse me. Miss Kettlewell,” said Number Sixty- 
Three unexpectedly, “I neither gossip nor tell tales.” 

Thus brought to book. Miss Kettlewell raised her strik- 
ing old head — it was like a portrait of Eembrandt, with 
its vivid dark eyes and white hair, its framework of costly 
lace falling over rich brocade and its background of pan- 
elled wall — and inspected the proposed companion more 
carefully. Miss Lavinia Wedderburn was, as we have 
said, at least forty years of age; she was very spare, very 
slight, with a certain elegance of figure which her shabby 
clothing disguised but did not hide; she had sharp, well- 
cut pale features, with peculiarly thin, tight lips, and 


NUMBER SIXTY-THREE. 


7 


small light blue eyes. Her hair was dark, parted in the 
middle and neatly waved down each side of the parting, 
her hands were long and slender. It was probable that 
she had been a pretty girl. Her dress was black and Pur- 
itanically plain; she was decidedly shabby, but she was 
not unladylike. Miss Kettlewell turned her attention 
upon her, and found her almost interesting. 

^‘Your name is Lavinia Wedderbum,” she stated, as if 
she were making an accusation, rather than asking a ques- 
tion. 

Miss Wedderbum bowed her head. 

‘^And you are,” — referring to a paper — “forty-two?” 

“Forty-two years, six months, and three days,” said Miss 
Wedderbum categorically. 

“What can you do?” said Miss Kettlewell. 

Miss Wedderbum replied in a hard voice, which was yet 
not without musical qualities: “I can read aloud for any 
length of time.” 

“Good!” said the old lady. “My last companion was 
hoarse in twenty minutes.” 

“I know something of gardening — if you are fond of 
plants.” 

“My gardener attends to them. Can you arrange flow- 
ers?” 

“Pretty well. But I can play the piano,” said Miss 
Wedderbum hastily, as if seeking to atone for some con- 
fessed deficiency. “I can read music well; I can play the 
harmonium and the organ — a little; I am used to church 
music.” 

“Humph!” said Miss Kettlewell, looking at her keenly, 
“that won’t be of much good to you here. I hate music. 
Do you like cats?” 

Miss Wedderbum might possibly have been going to 
answer that she hated cats, for she hesitated a little in her 
reply, had not a very fine specimen of a tabby cat sud- 
denly leaped up on a little table between her and Miss 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Kettlewell, and stood with his tail erect, evidently hoping 
to be stroked. 

‘‘That is Peter/’ said Miss Kettlewell conversationally. 
“He is a most intelligent person. He heard the word 
‘cat’ mentioned, and immediately introduced himself. 
Kindly stroke his head. Miss Wedderburn. Now, Peter, 
what do you think of Miss Wedderburn?” 

Miss Wedderburn performed the office required of her 
with slight cordiality and Peter, evidently recognizing the 
perfunctory character of her attention, immediately sat 
down on the table between the two ladies and wagged his 
long tail angrily. 

“That is curious,” said Miss Kettlewell, anxiously. “I 
have never known Peter’s judgment to fail.” 

Miss Wedderburn stroked him again. 

Peter rose and yawned, then deliberately precipitated 
himself into his mistress’s lap, where he turned round 
three times and then went fast asleep. 

“He is very perplexing,” said Miss Kettlewell, “how- 
ever, he has not sworn at you, and he does swear at some 
people. And you are the sixty-third person that I have 
seen. ... I suppose you are in real want of a situation?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Wedderburn, grimly. She was not 
going to confess to this rich woman that she had but 
three and six-pence in the world. 

“You have no relations, perhaps?” 

“Only a cousin, I was left an orphan at an early age.” 

“And this cousin,” said Miss Kettlewell with interest, 
“where and what is he?” 

Her observant eyes saw that Miss Wedderburn’s pale 
cheeks flushed a little, that her blue eyes shone as she an- 
swered the question. 

“He is a great man — or will be a great man. He is a 
philanthropist. He lectures on the condition of the 
poor.” 

“Good gracious!” said Miss Kettlewell. “Is he a rich 
man, then?” 


NUMBER SIXTY-THREE. 


9 


“No, Miss Kettlewell, he is poor. It is therefore the 
more noble of him to devote himself to social and econom- 
ic questions. Eeligious questions, also,” Miss Wedder- 
burn seemed to add as an afterthought. 

“Is he a clergyman, then?” 

“Well, no; he is not connected with the church, I regret 
to say.” 

“I presume you don’t mean that he is an infidel,” said 
Miss Kettlewell, with a snort. Miss Wedderburn hastened 
to reassure her. 

“By no means. Miss Kettlewell. My cousin is a true 
believer. He has connected himself with some fanatics of 
the commoner sort at present, but I have no doubt that 
he will sooner or later see the error of his ways.” 

“It’s generally later,” said Miss Kettlewell, cynically. 
“He’s the only relation you have, you say? And what 
does he do for a living?” 

“He is employed,” said Miss Wedderburn with dignity, 
“as a sort of delegate by a London committee to go out to 
the South Sea Islands, and investigate one or two matters 
for them there. There is a sort of slave trade flourishing 
in those regions, I believe, which he is to inquire into. 
He has a scheme also, I believe, for planting a colony of 
English workmen in the islands of the Pacific. He speaks 
and lectures on the subject sometimes.” 

“I suppose he’s a humbug,” said Miss Kettlewell. 

“Not at all,” Miss Wedderburn rejoined. She rose from 
her seat. “Any imputation on my dear cousin is so ob- 
noxious to me, that I fear I should hardly suit you as your 
companion. Miss Kettlewell. I could not remain silent if 
doubts should be cast upon his integrity, and you seem 
somewhat inclined to suspect him — for what reason I can- 
not imagine, except that he is a Dissenter,” 

“Oh, sit down,” said Miss Kettlewell. A declaration of 
independent opinion was after all very dear to her heart. 
“I shall not abuse your cousin to you, you may be sure of 
that. Where is he now?” 


10 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“His whereabouts is not known to me exactly. He may 
be in Australia or on the Pacific Ocean, or on one of the 
South Sea Islands. He has been away for three years. 
While he was at home, I never wanted; but he has a wife 
and child” — there was a malignant gleam in Miss Wedder- 
burn’s eyes — “and of course they come first.” 

“Ah, I see; you wanted to marry him,” said Miss Kettle- 
well, cruelly. 

“Madam!” 

“I said you wanted to marry him,” Miss Kettlewell re- 
joined. “You need not look so indignant. It was a very 
natural desire, I am sure — under the circumstances. Who 
was his wife?” 

“A nobody.” 

“Of course — I understand that. What? a barmaid? a 
governess? — a — a companion?” 

“She was a minister’s daughter,” said Miss Wedderbum, 
coloring in spite of herself. “A very pretty woman, but 
with nothing in her. She is very delicate. It was partly 
in order to benefit her health that the committee provided 
funds for her and the child to accompany Silas.” 

“Silas! A curious name,” commented the old lady. 
“Well, you interest me very much. Miss Wedderburn. I 
shall be glad if you will stay with me. I really am not 
equal to interviewing more than sixty-three applicants for 
the situation I have to offer. I give fifty pounds a year, 
neither more nor less. I think it is ample — considering 
that board and lodging are also given without charge. I 
do not wish to be stingy; I will give sixty if you will stay, 
for I rather fancy that you may suit me; but there is one 
thing I wish to mention, you must not reckon on getting 
anything in my will.” 

“I have no expectations of anything of the kind,” said 
Miss Wedderburn frostily. 

“A good many people are not so disinterested,” Miss 
Kettlewell rejoined. “Did you ever happen to hear of the 
Flemings?” 


NUMBER SIXTY-THREE. 


11 


“The Flemings! What Flemings, Miss Kettlewell? I 
know several Flemings.^’ 

“I mean the Flemings of Kushton, not six miles away. 
Do you know Eushton?” 

“Scarcely. I have stayed there for a day or two —that 
is all.’’ 

“The Flemings,” said Miss Kettlewell, deliberately, 
“are relations of mine. They are my second-cousins; and 
their children are my second-cousins once removed. You 
understand the relationship?” 

“Quite so.” 

“Fleming,” said the old lady, contemptuously, “is a 
country doctor, and his wife is equal to him — that is all I 
can say. They have two or three children growing up — 
the eldest may be twelve or thirteen by this time. Chloe 
is her ridiculous name; it was like the Flemings to call her 
Chloe. If she had been called Keturah, after me, I might 
have taken some notice of the girl.” 

“Quite so,” Miss Wedderburn said again. 

“They send the children over to see me now and then. 
Pert little things — pretty enough, but ill-mannered. If 
Dr. Fleming thinks that I am going to leave my money to 
Chloe or to that little wretch Milly, he is mistaken. And 
I don’t want them to encroach. It will be one of your 
duties, IMiss Wedderburn, to see that they don’t encroach.” 

“I will do my best,” said Miss Wedderburn. 

“I boxed Chloe’s ears the other day,” Miss Kettlewell 
said, in a ruminative tone. “She had been sadly imperti- 
nent. The children of the present day are unbearable. I 
must say that Chloe took it very oddly. She said that she 
should not come back until I apologized. And she has 
not been here since, although it is nearly a fortnight 
since.” 

“She relies on your good nature, no doubt,” said Miss 
Wedderburn dryly. 

“She need not do anything of the sort. I have made 
up my mind to leave every penny I possess to my nephew. 


12 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Laurence Corbet. He does not need it, which is a recom- 
mendation to my mind. He has a good income and a 
house not very far from mine, and he cannot be suspected 
of fortune-hunting. The Flemings — poor things! — are as 
poor as church mice.^’ 

“And no doubt expect to get a good deal out of you,” 
said Miss Wedderburn quietly. 

“Exactly. And I don’t mean to let them. Laurence 
shall have my money. Though I must say that Laurence 
has disappointed me by going off to wild parts of the 
world simply because he was jilted by Justine Spinceley. 
Such weakness!” 

“Quite so. Miss Kettlewell,” the companion hastened to 
admit. 

“But he will come back. I am sure he will come back. 
If he does not, I shall have to leave my money to hospitals 
and charities, but I will not leave it to the Flemings. 
Does Chloe Fleming imagine that she is going to twist me 
round her little finger?” 

Miss Wedderburn intimated that she thought such a 
proceeding utterly impossible. But she reserved her pri- 
vate opinion on the matter until she had seen Chloe Flem- 
ing. 

She was installed as companion at sixty pounds a year. 
It was the greatest piece of good luck that had come to her 
for years. 

She and her cousin, Silas Wedderburn, as she took care 
to inform Miss Kettlewell, had been brought up together, 
and had been like brother and sister until Silas married. 
Ever since that time, Lavinia Wedderburn’s life had been 
a burden to her. Silas’s wife had disliked her, and Silas 
had therefore done his utmost to keep them apart. The 
birth of Silas’s child had not re-united them; the child 
seemed to Lavinia like a new barrier set up between her- 
self and Silas, whom she adored. Miss Kettlewell was 
quick to divine the reason of the division. 

“You cared for him too much, Lavinia,” she said, when 


NUMBER SIXTY-THREE. 


13 


she had grown sufficiently at home with Miss Wedderbum 
to call her by her Christian name. “You would have 
married him if you could, and probably his wife guessed 
it. I don’t see how you can expect any friendliness from 
her.” 

“I neither expect it nor want it,” said Miss Wedderbum, 
setting her thin lips. 

As time went on, the community of interest in two ab- 
sent relatives drew the two women together. Miss Ket- 
tlewell had letters from Laurence — witty, charming let- 
ters, in which he described the scenery and companionship 
in which he found himself, but said not a word about com- 
ing home. And Lavinia had letters from Silas the enthus- 
iast; letters full of religious aspirations, of dreams, of the 
future, of schemes and plans which were too idealistic to 
be realized. Lavinia read these letters aloud to Miss Ket- 
tlewell from time to time. Miss Kettlewell sneered, but was 
impressed, and sometimes sent a cheque by her companion 
to encourage Silas Wedderbum in his good work. She 
became more and more impressed by the conviction that 
Silas Wedderbum was a good man, with a great career be- 
fore him. “It is a valuable life,” she mused aloud, as La- 
vinia dilated on the dangers that he ran in the strange 
seas of which she knew so little. And to them both, that 
life became peculiarly dear. 

So Miss Wedderbum stayed and made King’s Leigh her 
home. She was an invaluable companion. She was nev- 
er tired, never out of temper, never depressed. She 
snubbed the Flemings, when they came over from Rush- 
ton, with exactly the right degree of scorn. The Fleming 
children hated her. But Miss Kettlewell was supremely 
satisfied. 

It was an unusual thing, therefore, that Miss Wedder- 
bum should one day prove unequal to her duties. She 
faltered in her reading, she broke down in her writing of 
notes; she was so strange in manner, that Miss Kettlewell 
at last asked peevishly if anything were wrong. 


14 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


For answer, Miss Wedderburn placed a letter in her 
hand, and turned away her face. 

It was a letter from Silas Wedderburn, and it announced 
in choice and fitting language the fact that his wife had 
died in an out-of-the-way place in Australia, and that he, 
being left alone with little Fanny, had determined to sail 
as soon as possible for England. 

“I don’t see why you should be so upset, Lavinia,” said 
Miss Kettlewell, crossly, as she handed back the letter to 
her weeping companion. “Of course he will come back 
and marry you. What else can he do with a child of nine 
upon his hands? You ought to be glad of the chance of 
seeing him — while my silly nephew Laurence Corbet goes 
scouring the world in search of a new sensation I I have 
no patience with men like him. Come, Lavinia, your life 
is before you; thank God and take courage, and marry 
Silas as soon as ever he comes home again — though where 
I shall get another companion from, God only knows! I 
shall not advertise again. I shall take Chloe to live with 
me if I can get no one else.” 

But Miss Wedderburn did not approve of this idea, al- 
though she was not averse to the thought of manning her 
cousin Silas when he came home again. 


THE PHILANTHROPIST. 


16 


CHAPTEE II. 

THE PHILANTHROPIST. 

He watched them as they came on board the steamer 
and was vaguely interested in the new arrivals. The 
steamer had been stopped by signal from the island, he 
understood; and some little time elapsed before a small 
fleet of boats emerged from the reef-bound harbor, bring- 
ing out to the English ship an Englishman and his child. 
With these came a party of friends to see them off, a num- 
ber of smiling natives adorned with wreaths of scarlet 
hibiscus and other brilliant blossoms, and some very mod- 
est luggage which bore in white letters the name of Wed- 
derbum. 

The passengers on board the Attaman, on its way to 
San Francisco, were eager for any diversion, and leaned 
over the bulwarks with spy glasses in their hands as the 
little boats flew over the sparkling blue water to the great 
ocean steamer, which waited for them quietly like some 
monster of the deep surrounded by darting sea-birds. 
Laurence Corbet, his elbows on the wooden rail, his glass 
at his eyes, was one of the most interested and most ob- 
servant watchers, and when the Englishman in the boat 
stood up and called out a question to the captain, Mr. 
Corbet raised himself and lounged a little nearer the gang- 
way, so that he might learn the purport of the colloquy. 
Not that he was naturally of a curious disposition. But 
anything serves to pass away time on board ship; and 
moreover, Laurence Corbet considered himself a student 
of manners and of men. 

The question had reference to a passage for the English- 
man and his little daughter to San Francisco. Could they 
be taken? They were very anxious to get away. And as 


16 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


the captain seemed propitious, the Englishman and his 
friends climbed up the ladder that was lowered for them 
benefit and made the rest of their arrangements on board. 

There was more talking than seemed to Laurence abso- 
lutely necessary, but it was carried on in subdued voices, 
and not till later did he discover the nature of the con- 
versation. The Englishman — or at least his friends for 
him — claimed to be taken as a first-class passenger at a 
second-class fare, saying that this arrangement had been 
made in other cases where a gentleman engaged in mis- 
sionary or philanthropic work had travelled by that line. 
The captain argued that the arrangement was not in his 
hands, and that the owners had not authorized him to 
make any such exceptions; moreover, was the gentleman 
a missionary? 

At this question, shrewdly put, there was a little un- 
easiness manifested, and it was finally allowed that the 
would-be passenger was a minister, not engaged in any 
kind of missionary work, but sent out as a sort of delegate 
by an English committee to examine into the state of the 
slave-trade in the Southern Pacific and report upon the 
Kanakas and their employment. He bore the title of 
“Reverend,” however; and was in considerable repute as 
a preacher and a speaker at public meetings. He was re- 
ported to be in possession of a new scheme which he had 
not yet divulged. 

“The Reverend Silas Wedderburn,” said the captain 
thoughtfully, reading from the card which one of the 
residents on the island had handed to him. “Well, sir, I 
think the committee that sent you ought to be able to 
afford first-class fare for first-class accommodation. I 
don’t think I should be justified in relaxing the rules of 
the company to the extent you propose.” 

Laurence had drawn near enough to hear the response, 
which came from Mr. Wedderburn himself in a singularly 
musical voice. “It is for the work’s sake that we ask this 
consideration, not for my own sake, nor even for that of 


THE PHILANTHROPIST 


11 


toy child” — putting forward a fair-haired little girl in a 
black frock — “but that our funds may not be diminished 
by unnecessary expenditure on my poor account.” 

Musical as was the voice, there was something in the 
tone that Laurence did not like. “Hang it, why doesn’t 
he go second-class or steerage like a man, and not cringe 
in that way?” he muttered to himself, and he moved to a 
little distance. But he could not help hearing the cap- 
tain’s curt reply. 

“Very sorry, sir. Must stick to regulations. We can’t 
stay here much longer; if you wish to come — come, if not, 
I’ll trouble you to get into the boats again and let them 
sheer off a bit; we’ve no time to waste.” 

Laurence heard no more, but he saw the heads of the 
party of men who had accompanied Mr. Wedderburn very 
close together, as if in consultation, and finally he saw that 
the luggage was being carried on board, and that the affair 
had evidently been adjusted to the satisfaction of every- 
one concerned. But he did not think that the new pas- 
senger looked particularly amiable, and he presently saw 
him give a furtive kick to one of the brown-skinned island- 
ers who was carrying his luggage — not a severe or cruel 
kick by any manner of means, but a sly and furtive one, as 
if he wanted to wreak his angry feelings upon any person 
who could not resent an injury. Then his face became 
wreathed in smiles — the sudden change was quite startling 
— as his friends approached him one by one to say good-by. 
Perhaps nobody save Laurence, who had keen eyes and 
keen intuitions, observed that most of his friends pressed 
something into Mr. Wedderburn’s hand as they took leave 
of him; parting gifts, doubtless, which were received with 
suitable gratitude, and which Laurence shrewdly suspect- 
ed to be of pecuniary value. The last to go was a burly 
man in white clothes and a palmetto hat, who openly pre- 
sented the “delegate” with a fat portmonnaie, and said, 
loud enough to be heard by the by-standers, that it was a 
token of respect and gratitude and that Mr. Wedderburn 


18 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


was an honor to the cloth. At which, Mr. Wedderburn’s 
rather pale and handsome face flushed sensitively and 
Laurence vaguely hoped that the minister, if he were a 
minister, was more wounded than flattered by the gift. 
But he could not tell. The big man in white clothes 
clambered down to the boat, and Mr. Wedderburn stood 
by the bulwarks, looking after him with a strange, sphimv- 
like smile on his enigmatic countenance. 

The little girl crept up to him, anfl — timidly, it seemed 
to Laurence — touched his hand. She was a handsome, 
rather than a merely pretty child; she had clearly-cut, pale 
features, fine dark eyes, and a mass of chestnut brown hair 
which hung loosely on her shoulders in long, natural 
waves and curls. She did not look well cared for or well- 
dressed, and Laurence Corbet surmised that her mother 
was dead. But, in that case, why did he not send the 
child to school, instead of taking her round the globe with 
him? 

Mr. Wedderburn started when she touched him, but 
clasped the little hand tenderly, and walked away with her 
towards the purser’s cabin. Then he disappeared into the 
lower regions of the vessel, and was seen no more until 
dinner-time, when, to Mr. Corbet’s surprise, he presented 
himself in the first-class dining-saloon, and was given a 
seat which happened to be immediately opposite that of 
Laurence, although at a different table. Thus seated, 
with his little girl beside him, he was much observed by 
the passengers, and particularly by Mr. Corbet, who felt 
himself unusually interested % the personality of the 
man. 

Silas Wedderburn had certainly a striking face. It was 
pale and rather worn, with high sharp features, and deeply 
set but brilliant dark eyes; his dark hair was rather longer 
than was usual at that time, and was pushed away from 
his brow in a sort of “admired disorder.” His mouth was 
larger and more prominent than it ought to have been, 
but it had beautiful lines, and was curiously expressive 


THE PHILANTHROPIST. 


19 


and sensitive; his well-cut nose had but one fault, the nos- 
trils were too wide and too much exposed to view. Lau- 
rence gathered from these signs that the man was proba- 
bly something of an orator; a certain fluency of speech of- 
ten accompanies features of this kind. It was an interest- 
ing face, almost an attractive one; but the mouth and chin 
were certainly a little weak. And Mr. Corbet disliked 
weakness almost more than wickedness. 

The little girl was not much like her father. There 
w as indeed a superflcial resemblance in coloring, but Lau- 
rence noticed that her features were more reflned and 
delicately cut than Mr. Wedderburn’s; and her mouth and 
chin — child as she was — were singularly Arm. “She has 
the stronger will of the two,” Laurence said. 

He was interesting himself more than usual over these 
people and he rather wondered why. It was not his fash- 
ion to be interested, even when he was most observant. A 
great passion, a great sorrow, had overwhelmed him in the 
days gone by, and he had saved very little hope and faith 
out of the wreck of his life. Yet he was barely three and 
thirty, full of physical vigor, bearing no trace of his 
trouble in his outward man — save, perhaps, in his eyes, 
which had an unusual seriousness, even a look of sadness, 
in repose. His hair and pointed beard were chestnut in 
color, his flgure was tall, strong, broad-shouldered. He 
had good features, although he was not remarkably hand- 
some, and there was a pleasantness in his smile which re- 
deemed the listless melancholy of his eyes. He was a dis- 
appointed man, but he did not want the world to And it 
out. 

He had a beautiful house and great estate in Warwick- 
shire; but the life of a country squire was not to his taste, 
and for the last three years he had not been seen in Eng- 
land. He was not on his way to England now. He meant 
to visit the Western States and then go north to Canada — 
stifling the voice of conscience which told him that the 
longer he stayed away from his own home, the more diffi- 


20 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


cult he would find it to go back. “Then I will never go 
back,” he sometimes said to himself impatiently. 

After dinner, he found an opportunity of speaking pri- 
vately to the captain, with whom he was on very friendly 
terms. “Who are those people who came on board to- 
day?” he asked. 

“Never saw them before,” said Captain Duncan cau- 
tiously. Then, relaxing a little, “Have heard of the man 
often enough though, I think he’s sincere enough, but I 
don’t know that I trust these black-coated gentry for my 
part. He speaks well.” 

“Have you heard him?” said Laurence, offering the cap- 
tain a cigar. 

“Heard him at a meeting in Melbourne,” said the cap- 
tian with a nod of thanks. “Kather flowery, but clever 
enough. Wanted funds to start a new colony in the Ha- 
waiian group.” 

“What sort of a colony?” 

“English ruffians, sir, who won’t do any work at home. 
That’s the idea. Plant them in a South Sea Island, to 
corrupt the natives and sleep away their time under a 
palm tree. It’s a fine idea.” 

Laurence laughed. “There was some difficulty about 
his passage-money, wasn’t there?” 

“Wanted first-class accommodation for second-class 
fare. Not if I knew it. You saw the big chap in white 
clothes and a palmetto hat! He’s a trader; the richest 
trader I know; and he was backing up Wedderburn. I 
made him put his hand in his pocket and pay the differ- 
ence. It wouldn’t do him any harm.” 

“Trader! \ATiat does he trade in?” 

“Natives, I think,” said the captain with a wink. “But 
you won’t say I said so; after all, I believe Silas Wedder- 
burn is an honest man.” 

Laurence felt enough interest in the subject and in the 
minister, to open a conversation with him a day or two 
later. Wedderburn’s face flushed, his eyes lighted up, at 


THE PHILANTHROPIST. 21 

once. He was something of an enthusiast in his own par- 
ticular way. 

“Yes, it was my idea to begin with,” he said. “I had 
seen something of these South Sea Islands in my young 
days; for I was a wild, reprobate youth, sir, and ran away to 
sea before I was fifteen. But my experiences have been 
of use to me in my later years; in my converted state.” 

Laurence disliked phrases. He sat, nursing his knee, 
and casting a sharp glance at Mr. Wedderburn’s face now 
and then. “You see your way to a good speculation, per- 
haps?” he said. 

“I know nothing of speculation or of trade,” said Silas 
Wedderburn gently. “My father was an Independent 
minister; I have never had a taste for business. But when 
I was working in London, I saw the crowds of toiling, 
sordid, down-trodden men and women in the hovels of the 
great city, and my heart rose up in prayer for them; and 
then it seemed to me, sir, as if a light were thrown upon 
my path.” 

“In what way?” said Laurence. He was a little con- 
temptuous still. But Wedderburn’s child had crept near- 
er to the speaker, and was now standing close to her fath- 
er’s shoulders with her clear hazel eyes fixed upon his face. 
There was such trust, such love, such reverence, in those 
beautiful eyes, that Laurence Corbet curbed his tongue 
and tried to govern his thoughts for the child’s sake. 

“I thought of these lovely islands of the southern main,” 
said the minister, “with their flowers and trees and moun- 
tain-heights — a ver)-^ Paradise for men! And it seemed 
to me that if some of our surplus population could be 
shipped ofO to these islands, their happiness and prosper- 
ity would be assured. Ah, think of it! the change from 
the fetid garret, the seething street, the squalid court — 
to these blue seas and skies, these gorgeous flowers, these 
graceful palms! It would be like a change from hell to 
heaven.” 

“I doubt whether the city arabs would appreciate it,” 


22 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


said Laurence with a smile. “I am a doubting Sadducee 
— a very Gallic, Mr. Wedderhurn, and I am afraid you 
would have to change the hearts and seals of these people 
before you could benefit them by bringing them here.” 

“But that is what we hope to do,” said Wedderburn, 
•with fresh light in his deep-set eyes. “Change their 
hearts! Yes, and we hope to do it by the love of God.” 

“You persuaded others of the advisability of your 
scheme?” 

“I laid it before a committee of ministers — of our Body. 
They approved — provisionally. I was deputed to come 
out here and to examine the facilities for carrying out our 
scheme; and I am now returning, laden with details, my 
scheme formulated and ready for use. I hope to be the 
pioneer of a new colony, the leader of a new society — ” 

“The king, in fact, of a new state,” said Laurence 
coolly. 

Silas Wedderburn took this remark in a way which 
puzzled Mr. Corbet a little. He colored all over his pale 
face, then rose from his seat, with a movement of natural 
dignity, and rested his hand on his child’s head for a 
moment as he spoke. 

“I hope, sir,” he said, with a touch of reproach in his 
voice, “to lead these poor people back to peace with God.” 

“I beg your pardon if I have said anything you do not 
like,” said Laurence, somewhat moved by the answer, 
“and I beg that you will not go away, Mr. Wedderburn. 
Do sit down. I am very much interested.” 

Mr. Wedderburn hesitated a little. “I trust that you 
throw no aspersion on my honor and honesty, sir,” he said 
stiffly. 

“Not a bit of it,” said Laurence, laughing, “I only sup- 
plied what would have been my own motive; I cannot pre- 
tend to judge of yours. This is your little girl, I think?” 
he went on, wishing to change the subject, for it was evi- 
dent that the minister was pained. 

“Yes, my daughter Frances,” and hearing her name, the 


THE PHILANTHROPIST. 


33 


child came forward and offered her little hand to the 
stranger with a readiness which delighted Laurence. He 
held the little fingers in his palm, and looked at her. What 
a beautiful child she was! There was something pecul- 
iarly attractive about her in Laurence’s eyes. 

“You are a young traveller,” he said softly. 

“When we set out, her mother was with us,” Mr. Wed- 
derburn observed. “I buried her in Australia.” 

“It is a sad thing for a child to be motherless,” said 
Laurence. And little Frances’s eyes seemed to say that 
she understood. 

“I try to be father and mother both,” said the minister; 
and, in spite of his earnestness, there was a touch of pom- 
posity in his tone which cropped up every now and then in 
his conversation and always made Laurence Corbet feel 
irreverently inclined to laugh. 

They were in the saloon, and it was growing late. 
Many of the passengers had already retired for the night; 
others were playing games at the central table. The air 
was stifling and hot, and a slight haze seemed to be spread- 
ing itself over the room. The players were too much ab- 
sorbed by their game to notice it; even Laurence, usually 
so quick-sighted, had not perceived the strange thickening 
of the atmosphere. It was almost eleven o’clock, and he 
wondered why the child Frances was not yet in bed. 

Suddenly the sound of flying steps was heard, and one 
of the passengers, a mere youth, rushed wildly into the 
saloon. His pale face, his staring eyes, betokened mis- 
fortune. Everyone started up to hear what he had to say. 

“The ship!” he cried. “The ship! The ship is on fire!” 

And then he fell half fainting to the ground, and there 
was a general rush towards the door. 


24 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER III. 
THE BURNING SHIP. 


In another moment everyone was on deck. It was a 
wonder to Laurence that he had noticed neither the smoke 
nor the smell of fire, but, like the players at the table, his 
mind had been occupied, though in a different way. But 
the saloon was already full of a creeping smoke, the com- 
panion-way was thick with it, there was a hot feeling in 
the air. Mr. Wedderburn had caught his child in his arms 
and torn away to the deck as soon as the alarm reached 
his ears; Laurence Corbet followed more slowly, with the 
glimmer of a smile upon his face. As a matter of fact, he 
hardly believed in the reality of this alarm. But when he 
trod the deck, he saw that there was danger. The smoke 
was rising in clouds from two places near the funnel, and 
sweeping across the deck. A dull red light was already 
perceptible, and a tongue of flame rushed up the masts as 
Laurence gazed. The magnitude of the danger at once 
came home to him, and made him serious, although he did 
not lose his calm. It was quite evident that if the fire 
had already made so much way no power could extinguish 
it; the ship was doomed, and the passengers’ only chance 
lay in getting away from her by the boats. 

The scene of uproar and confusion that ensued was in- 
describable. The captain did his best to enforce disci- 
pline, but at first it seemed an almost impossible task. 
There were some ruffianly Malays among the crew, and it 
was difficult to prevent them from seizing upon the boats 
and making off with them. It was not until the captain 
and his officers had actually cut down two of the men 
and shot another, that something like order was restored. 
The task of launching the boats could then be proceeded 


THE BURNING SHIP. 


26 


with, but there was indeed urgent need for haste; the dull 
red glow of the fire was refiected in the water, the flames 
were already shooting over one side of the vessel with a sul- 
len roar which surmounted even the sound of the wind and 
waves. For the wind, unfortunately, had risen; a cir- 
cumstance which added to the danger of all on board; for 
it increased the fury of the flames, and made it more dif- 
ficult for the passengers to reach the boats, which were 
tossed about like corks on the summit of the waves. 

Many of the passengers, especially the women, were in 
their night clothes, muffled in a rug or cloak hastily 
caught up as they left their cabins, and not daring to re- 
turn in search of warmer things. But the women were 
calmer than the men. They stood or sat as they were di- 
rected, with white faces, indeed, but with a calm resigna- 
tion and obedience which contrasted strongly with the 
frantic terror of some of the men, who were wildly offer- 
ing large sums of money to anyone who would save them, 
or breathing out curses against their adverse fate. Cer- 
tainly one or two of the women fainted, and one went 
into hysterical fits; but on the whole, they were far quieter 
and more collected than the men. 

Laurence made his way to the captain’s side. “Can I 
do anything to assist you, captain?” he said easily. “I 
have my revolver here and can shoot pretty straight.” 

“All right,” said Captain Duncan. “Keep your eye on 
the Malays, and fire if there is a rush for the boats. Pas- 
sengers, too; some of them are as bad as the yellow-skins. 
Kow then — pass the word along — women and children 
first, if you please.” 

There was no rush. The captain’s stem promptitude 
has checked it at once. There was a pistol in his hand, 
and two of his most trustworthy men possessed cutlasses, 
which gleamed menacingly in the reddening light. Some 
of the women and children were already packed into the 
largest of the boats, and Laurence found time to say an- 
other word in the captain’s ear. 


26 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Any chance, do you think?” he said. 

“We are running straight to land,” said the captain, 
and he mentioned the name of an island that Corbet knew; 
“I altered the ship’s course at the last moment, just before 
we were obliged to leave the engine room; we shall not get 
the ship to land, but we may come near enough for the 
boats to be of service. But there’s no land in sight yet.” 

Laurence looked once more at the scene before him. 
There was now a great arch of flame rising high into the 
reddened sky; the water round the vessel was blood-red, 
the heavy black smoke belched forth like the reek of a 
furnace. The roar of the fire was growing fearfully loud. 

“There is no time to waste,” he said to himself. Then 
he glanced at the red foam that churned under the sides 
of the vessel and made up his mind that he would rather 
be drowned than burnt alive. 

At that moment, a sudden commotion amongst the peo- 
ple pressing forward towards the boat attracted his atten- 
tion. A man seemed to be pushing his way through the 
crowd, his hands fighting madly with those who opposed 
his progress, his face white, his eyes distended with ter- 
ror. It took Laurence a moment to recognize — and he 
recognized it with a shock — the face of Silas Wedderburn 
in that frantic, terror-stricken man. Involuntarily he 
called out to him to keep back. But the minister did not 
hear. He was evidently beside himself with fright. And 
in the uproar and tumult all around him, it was not to be 
wondered at if Corbet’s remonstrances passed unheeded. 

He was fighting to get into the boat with the women and 
children. It seemed to Laurence a terrible thing to do — 
until he remembered little Frances, and thought it proba- 
ble that the child was in the boat already and that her 
father could not bear to be separated from her. That 
seemed the only natural and worthy explanation of his 
madness. Or perhaps he was dragging her forward, to 
secure a place for her. But he could not see her in the 
crowd. 


THE BURNING SHIP. 


27 


Ah, the sailors would not let him advance. He had 
roughly elbowed a woman aside — he seemed to have lost 
all control of himself — when one of the ship’s officers in- 
terfered. Wedderburn was swung rudely back, and on 
endeavoring to recover his lost ground was collared and 
actually thrown down upon the deck. Laurence felt 
some pity for him and also some contempt. 

But where was the child, he wondered. He hoped that 
little Frances was safe. A recollection of her beautiful 
eyes and long bronze curls came across him and filled his 
heart with pity. He spoke a word to the captain and has- 
tily resigned his place in the bows to another man, to whom 
he handed his revolver. “1 will be back in a moment or 
two,” he said, “but I want to see whether some friends of 
mine are safe.” 

He was warned against resigning his position, but for 
the moment he did not care in the least whether he came 
safe to land or not. The overpowering anxiety in his 
mind was to know what had become of little Frances Wed- 
derburn. 

He edged his way through the crowd until he found 
himself close to the pair he sought. Wedderburn was sit- 
ting on a coil of rope, his head leaning on his hands; a 
groan escaped him now and then. Frances stood beside 
him, very pale, but, as Laurence noticed, perfectly com- 
posed. Mr. Wedderburn started when he heard his own 
name pronounced, and raised his head. His face was 
ghastly white, and the blood was trickling from a cut upon 
his forehead. 

“Is there a place for me?” he exclaimed wildly. “For 
God’s sake, help me! Save me! I must not die like a rat 
in a hole — I cannot die!” 

“For shame, Mr. Wedderburn, control yourself,” said 
Laurence sternly. “If not for your own sake, for the 
sake of others.” 

“What are others to me?” said the wretched man, 
wringing his hands. “Save me, for God’s sake; you are 


28 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


strong, you are rich, you can buy a place for me in the 
boat and God will recompense you as I never can.” 

“Women and children come first,” said Laurence dryly. 
“Your child shall be saved, if possible. I thought you 
were fighting for her sake.” 

“Frances!” He looked vaguely at his little daughter, 
and shook his head. “Fanny! A mere child! You for- 
get, sir, that mine — mine — is a valuable life; hers is noth- 
ing — nothing — in comparison with mine.” 

“Good heavens, man!” exclaimed Laurence recoiling a 
pace or two, “do you mean to say that you don’t care for 
your own child?” 

“Care for her? Yes, yes! But think of the work I 
have done — of the work I have yet to do! I have my pa- 
pers here” — ^he clapped his hand to his breast — “and I 
must lay them before the authorities. If they are lost, if 
I am drowned, all the fruit of my labors will go as well. I 
tell you, sir, that mine is a valuable life, and I am bound 
to save it at any cost.” 

Laurence turned away in disgust. That the man was 
supremely in earnest about his work, he could not deny. 
But there was selfishness even in that. For if his life 
could only be bought by the sacrifice of; others — even by 
the life of his own child — it was evident that Silas Wed- 
derburn did not think it too high a price to pay. 

There -was a little lull in the noise at that moment; the 
fire roared less fiercely, and the wind was slightly stilled. 
Laurence stood looking out to sea, a frown on his brow, a 
thrill of impatience in his heart. And in the lull, he 
heard little Frances speaking to her father. She had 
drawn closer to him and laid her hand inside his arm. 

“You won’t leave me, papa?” she said, with obvious un- 
certainty. 

Laurence listened for the reply, which came after a 
deathly pause. 

“No, no, child,” Silas Wedderbum then said hoarsely. 
* “I won’t leave you — if— if — if I can help it.” 


THE BURNING SHIP. 


29 


A very ugly word escaped Laurence’s lips. He struck 
his heel on the boards with sudden passion. Then he 
wheeled round and addressed the child’s father with sud- 
den heat: 

‘Tf you are so bent on saving your life, there is a chance 
for you. Another boat has been launched, I see; and it is 
not quite full. We may at any rate be able to save your 
child’s life, if not your own.” 

Silas Wedderburn shuddered from head to foot. He 
rose from his seat, and cast a look at Frances which made 
Laurence Corbet’s blood run cold with anger and disgust. 
It was a look that seemed to say that the father cared lit- 
tle for his child in comparison with his own valuable life. 

Laurence’s eye had not deceived him. He made his 
way to the other side of the vessel, and looked over the 
side. There lay one of the boats, dancing on the water, 
and there was quite evidently a little space. But the men 
in the boat called up in stentorian tones: 

“Room for one only. No more, or you’ll sink the boat.” 

“Now Frances,” said Laurence quickly. He had sprung 
up into the chains and ropes that swayed above the bul- 
warks and held out his hand to bring Frances to his side. 
He was resolved to save her, let Mr. Wedderburn drown or 
not. 

“You must jump when I tell you,” he said, seizing her 
by the arm. 

“There is room for me — I must be saved, I must es- 
cape,” said a wild voice at his ear. Silas Wedderburn had 
crept up beside him, and swayed dizzily at the side. Lau- 
rence paid no attention to him; he was busily occupied in 
preparing the little girl for her leap. She was wonder- 
fully docile; but for a moment she hung back. 

“Oh, you’ll come, too? And papa will come?” 

“Yes, we shall be all right,” said Laurence cheerfully. 

“Jump! Jump! Now!” cried a voice from the rock- 
ing boat A strong, broad-shouldered man stood up in 
the boat, holding out his arms. 


30 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


But it was Silas Wedderburn who jumped. 

^‘Good heavens!’’ cried Laurence involuntarily. The 
man has saved himself at the expense of his little daugh- 
ter’s life. There was no more room in the boat; it hung 
rocking on the waves for a moment or two, and then 
sheered off; Laurence and the child were left behind. 

Frances suddenly burst into tears. 

“Don’t cry, child,” said Mr. Corbet, hurriedly, “I’ll do 
the best I can for you. You shall be saved yet if I can 
manage it. Don’t be afraid.” 

“I’m not afraid,” sobbed little Frances, “only— papa 
said he wouldn’t leave me, and now— he’s gone.” 

“Yes, gone — coward and traitor as he is,” said Laurence 
bitterly, “and left you to my care, little one. But I won’t 
desert you, you may be sure of that.” 

“Will you take care of me?” she said in a plaintive tone 
which went to his very heart. “But — if my papa did not 
care what became of me — why — why should you?” 

“Because I am not a cur,” said Laurence, savagely, “and 
because mine is not a valuable life, and I have not got any 
great work to do in the world, thank God! Stick to me, 
little Frances, and we shall be all right.” 

He took her up in his arms, and carried her to the other 
side of the ship. Most of the women and children had 
now left the vessel, and, to the joy and relief of all, land 
was certainly in sight. There was a better chance of life 
now than had once seemed possible for all. But the flames 
were sweeping over quite two-thirds of the ship by this 
time, and it was evident that the danger was still exceed- 
ingly great. Laurence waited for his turn, silently and 
sternly, with little Frances in his arms. He knew that she 
had a better chance of safety if he held her in this way 
than if he let her leap alone. The last boat was launched 
already. 

At last his turn came. “Now, Frances, hold tight!” he 
said. Then came the leap into the boat — safely achieved. 
But Frances had fainted in his arms. 


THE BURNING SHIP. 


31 


When she came to herself she was still lying in his arms, 
but they were rocking in a boat that seemed very small to 
her, considering the size of the one which they had left. 
She raised herself a little in his arms and looked about her. 
They were some distance from the burning ship, which 
looked now like a pyramid of fire. She shuddered and 
laid her head once more upon Laurence’s shoulder. The 
action of trust made him feel very tenderly towards her. 

“Do you think we shall find papa by and by?” she whis- 
pered in his ear. 

“Can’t tell, little one.” 

“Do you think he has got safe away?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t much care.” 

“Oh !” she said with a little moan as if the words grieved 
her. “Oh, I hope he has got safe to land.” 

“Why need you care?” said Laurence almost angrily. 
“Do you not see what has happened? Child though you 
are, don’t you understand? This man — ^your father — has 
abandoned you; he cared nothing for your life in com- 
parison with his own. You belong to me more than you 
belong to him.” 

The child was crying quietly, but her arm tightened 
round his neck. 

“Let us stick together, little Frances. I am a lonely 
man; you are a very lonely little woman. I will take care 
of you back to England; and if we meet your father again 
— well, we can then arrange matters. In the meantime I 
will be your guardian, and you must trust to me. Do you 
understand?” 

“Will you love me?” said Frances. 

“Yes, my child, I will.” 

It was a more solemn vow than little Frances knew, and 
Laurence Corbet told himself that he was willing' to fulfil 
it to his life’s end. He had nothing on earth to care for — 
save one eccentric old lady in England, who was his aunt 
and loved him in her own eccentric way — and he might 
as well take upon himself the care of this little girl, who 


32 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


was peculiarly to be pitied, seeing that her own father had 
preferred to save his own life rather than hers — virtually 
abandoning her, therefore, to the kindly offices of the first 
stranger who concerned himself on her behalf. 

“She is mine,” said Laurence, drawing his brows to- 
gether in stern reprobation of that unnatural father, “and 
no one shall take her from me unless I choose.” 


THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 


83 


CHAPTEK IV. 

THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 

“So at last, Laurence, you have come home again!” 

It was Miss Keturah Kettlewell who spoke. She was 
little changed from the day on which she had first taken 
Lavinia Wedderburn, Number Sixty-Three, as her com- 
panion; and yet nearly ten years had rolled over her gray 
head since that time, and her eyes were as bright and keen 
as ever. Her face might indeed be more colorless, more 
wrinkled, her hair a thought whiter than in days of yore, 
but these indications of age did not force themselves on 
the casual observer. Laurence Corbet indeed, told her 
that she was looking younger than ever. 

“I should hope not,” she observed, grimly enough. “I 
am seventy years old and not long for this world. I am 
glad you have come back.” 

“But I have been ‘back’ a good many times during the 
last few years,” said Laurence with a laugh. 

“For a few days at a time — ^yes. But now I hear that 
you have come to stay; to make your home at Denstone, 
really to give yourself up to the business of life.” 

There w'as a rather mocking smile upon her nephew’s 
lips. “Isn’t it rather late for me to talk about the business 
of life. I am forty-three — quite antediluvian. What 
should I do now that I have not already done?” 

“Marry,” said Miss Kettlewell, pounding the floor with 
her stick. 

“I shall never marry.” 

“And pray, why not, Laurence? If the loss of Justine 
Spenceley weighs upon you still so heavily — 

“Not at all, my dear aunt. I am glad you mentioned 
her. I found myself the other day vainly endeavoring to 
recollect her name.” 

3 


34 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Then you are quite at liberty to marry?” 

He shook his head. ‘T am quite happy as I am. And 
I have my ward to look after; she gives me plenty of oc- 
cupation-plenty of satisfaction, too.” A very tender 
smile played for a moment upon his lips as he said the 
words. 

“The girl, Frances. Frances what, by the way?” 

“Frances Corbet.” 

“It is useless to try to humbug me, Laurence. That 
girl can’t be a relation of ours. There is no connection by 
which it is possible that she should bear your name.” 

“I never said she was a relation of mine,” said Mr. Cor- 
bet gravely, “in fact, she is nothing of the kind. Aunt 
Keturah. I took charge of her once on board ship; she 
lost her parents, and finding that she seemed very much 
alone in the world, I resolved to adopt her. There is not 
even a mystery in the matter.” 

“But what is her real name?” 

“That it is not necessary for me to tell you,” said her 
nephew imperturbably. “It is a good name enough; she 
is of very respectable origin; but it has hitherto suited me 
better to introduce her to people under my own name 
than her own. But there is really no story that I could 
not tell all Eushton, if I chose.” 

“People will say unpleasant things, you know.” 

“I don’t think they will if you and I vouch for her. Aunt 
Keturah. And I am sure you will take my word for it, 
that she is all right.” 

“Well, if you say so. I’m bound to believe you,” said 
Miss Kettlewell, reluctantly. “Though I must tell you 
that your behavior, Laurence, will very much affect the 
dispositions of my will.” 

“How is that?” said her nephew, nonchalantly. “I 
really don’t desire to have any interest in your will, my 
dear aunt.” 

“Then you ought to desire it,” said the old lady sharply. 
“Laurence, I always meant to leave you all my money.” 


THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 


35 


^Tray don’t. I have quite enough as it is. I really 
have a difficulty in getting through it.” 

“You need not have difficulty. There are always plen- 
ty of poor people. If you had married, Laurence, I should 
have had no hesitation. I should have left King’s Leigh 
— and the money — to your children. But I am not going 
to leave it to this girl, Frances, who comes from nobody 
knows where.” 

“Well, there is no necessity for you to leave it to Fran- 
ces. I have enough of my own to provide for her.” 

“Yes, I shall leave that to you,” said Miss Kettlewell 
significantly. “But the question is, what am I to do with 
mine?” 

There was a little pause, and then Laurence said smil- 
ingly: 

“Leave it to the Flemings, of course.” 

“I don’t know,” said his aunt, undecidedly. “T used to 
say that nothing would induce me — but I must acknowl- 
edge that Chloe has grown into a very pretty girl, and 
Milly is not so pert as she used to be. Dear, dear, what a 
time it seems since I boxed Chloe’s ears!” 

“You boxed Chloe’s ears!” exclaimed Laurence, with a 
certain indignation in his tone. 

“Indeed I did. And I had to apologize to the little 
minx — for minx she was, although she may be a beauty 
now — before she would enter the house again. But I bear 
her no malice. She is a pretty creature.” 

“And Milly?” 

“Milly is a wild thing who will calm down in a year or 
two. Yes, I like those girls better than I ever thought to 
have done. At one time, you know, I did not mean to 
leave anything to them at all. I had my eye on the Coun- 
ty Hospital, the Children’s Hospital in London, the Home 
for Sick Animals — ” 

“Heavens!” said Laurence, suddenly starting from his 
seat. “What is that?” 

There was certainly a curious noise outside the door. 


36 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


But Miss Kettlewell listened to it undisturbed. “It is 
Jim,” she said, “he always sneezes in that way when he 
wants a door opened. Perhaps you would he so kind, 
Laurence, as to open it.” 

Laurence opened it, in wonder; whereupon, in stalked 
an enormous black and white cat, with a peculiar face, 
half of its nose very white and half black, as if it had 
been divided down the middle. His chest and feet were 
also white, but the rest of his fur was of the glossiest 
black. 

“This is Jim,” said Miss Kettlewell, placidly, “Peter, 
whom you may remember, died some years ago. You will 
like Jim. He is the most maudlingly affectionate animal 
that ever lived. Look at him now — sitting there, eyeing 
me, and slobbering with love.” 

“I admire Jim,” said Laurence. “A capacity for affec- 
tion is a great gift. Peter was always too discriminating 
and too haughty for me.” 

“Jim is neither the one nor the other,” said Miss Kettle- 
well. “I thought once of endowing a Home for Cats.” 

“I shall contest the will, if you do,” said her nephew, 
who had meanwhile patted his knee and brought the af- 
fectionate Jim to the level of his shoulder. “You’re an 
odd beast,” he said to the cat, whose paws already ten- 
derly encircled his throat, and who was kissing his cheek 
with avidity. 

“That’s not his greatest proof of affection,” said Miss 
Kettlewell contentedly. “When he’s really fond of you, 
he gently— very gently— bites your nose. But to return 
to the subject of my money, Laurence — ” 

“Oh, bother, why don’t you leave it all to Miss Wed- 
derburn?” said Laurence, with a twinkle in his eye. 

“I intend to do no such thing,” said Miss Kettlewell, 
with dignity. “If I do not leave it to my relations, I 
shall leave it to charities. Lavinia Wedderburn has no 
claim on me.” 


THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 


37 


‘^Where did you pick her up?” said Laurence, looking 
attentively at the cat. 

“I advertised. I had three hundred answers at least. I 
interviewed sixty-two; Miss Wedderburn was the sixty- 
third. I felt, Laurence, that I was hot equal to the task 
of interviewing any more. I engaged the sixty-third, al- 
most irrespective of her merits, and she has suited me 
very well.” 

“She has been with you now about ten years, I think.’* 

“Quite ten years. Yes,” said Miss Kettlewell, medi- 
tatively, “she came to me before that dreadful shipwreck, 
which you wrote to me about from San Francisco. Her 
cousin must have been on board with you; did you know 
him?” 

“He cannot have been on board more than a day or two, 
for we took him up half way. I vaguely remember him,” 
said Laurence, coolly, ‘d)ut of course I saw very little of 
him.” 

“I suppose he was steerage or something of that sort,” 
said Miss Kettlewell, contemptuously. “They are noth- 
ing of a family, although Lavinia is always trying to make 
out that they are so well connected! She had a great be- 
lief in her cousin at one time, but I think it’s gone off 
since he has been in the neighborhood and taken so little 
notice of her.” 

“In the neighborhood!” said Laurence Corbet, with em- 
phasis. “Do you mean to say that Silas Wedderburn has 
turned up in this part of the world?” 

“Why not? Yes, he has lately settled at Rushton, in 
charge of a chapel there.” 

“He has not gone out to the South Seas again?” 

“No, he seemed to take a dislike to the South Seas after 
that shipwreck — so Lavinia tells me, and I do not wonder 
at it. Why, you yourself, Laurence, don’t seem to have 
cared for the sea quite so much since you were nearly 
burnt to death.” 

Laurence laughed good-humoredly. There were cer- 


38 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


tain sections of his life which he never described in detail 
to Miss Kettlewell; that fire at sea came into one of them. 

“I have never heard of Mr. Wedderburn from that day 
to this,” he said, “what has been his history?” 

“I don’t think he’s had a history,” said Aunt Keturah 
briskly. “He did not quite please the committee that 
sent him out, in one way or another. They refused to give 
him authority to do anything; and Lavinia tells me that 
the loss of his wife and little girl affected him so much that 
his health broke down, and he could not work for a time.” 

“Ah, that was sad!” said Mr. Corbet, and his aunt won- 
dered why he spoke in so cynical a tone. 

“He had a chapel in some northern place for a time, and 
became quite celebrated among the Dissenters for his 
preaching; then that grew too hard for him, and he settled 
down at Eushton about a year ago, and has been in high 
favor with the tradespeople and folks of that sort ever 
since he came. Derrick — you remember Derrick, the 
miller? He’s the great man at Mr. Wedderburn’s Little 
Bethel.” 

“Derrick wasn’t a bad sort,” said ]\Ir. Corbet, reflect- 
ively. 

“He’s made a fortune at any rate,” remarked his aunt, 
nodding her old head at him. “He sent his son to Ox- 
ford; the young fellow’s just back again and as handsome 
and gentlemanly a man as you ever saw. I heard — ” but 
there she stopped. 

“What did you hear. Aunt Keturah?” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

“You must tell me, after that preface. ‘Nothing’ is al- 
ways exciting. Let me guess; he is in love with some girl 
who is either much above or below him in station?” 

“Not a bad guess,” said Miss Kettle well, complacently, 
as if she had made it herself. “But the girl is said to be 
Chloe Fleming. I think he looks high.” 

“Money goes to money. Leave yours to Chloe, and 


THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 39 . 

some time — a hundred years hence, I hope — they will be 
well matched.” 

“I’d sooner leave it to the Cat’s Hospital,” said Miss 
Kettlewell. 

An interruption occurred at this moment, in the shape 
of Miss Wedderburn, who still filled the office of Miss Ket- 
tlewell’s companion. She was older and grayer and stiffer 
than when she first came to King’s Leigh, but she pre- 
served the elegance of her demeanor which was enhanced 
by the costly and becoming dresses that she wore. Miss 
Kettlewell herself did not dress well, but she liked to see 
those about her well-dressed. “They ought to look as if 
they were properly paid,” she said to herself. She noticed 
on this occasion, that Laurence gave Miss Wedderburn a 
keen look, and drew his eyebrows together as if something 
in her appearance did not please him. And yet, as Miss 
Kettlewell thought, surveying her companion from a little 
distance, with a sort of proprietary interest, Lavinia had 
seldom looked so well. 

Miss Wedderburn and Mr. Corbet exchanged remarks. 

The old lady, in her lace and brocade, looked at them, 
and formed plans for their matrimonial happiness. La- 
vinia was destined ultimately to become the bride of the 
Reverend Silas Wedderburn; Miss Kettlewell had already 
settled upon the wedding present which would be most 
appropriate. If Silas did not come to the point very soon, 
she meant to send for him and harangue him on the pro- 
priety of a marriage with his cousin. Then Laurence — 
well, of course he ought to marry Chloe Fleming. Chloe 
was just the girl that he would like. And as for that 
troublesome ward of his — Frances, was she called? — why, 
Andrew Derrick, the miller’s son, was the very match for 
her. And then Miss Keturah fell to devising plans for 
Milly; for, as may be easily seen, she was a thorough-going 
match-maker at heart. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Corbet was quietly obtaining informa- 
tion. He had heard of Mr. Wedderburn; so Mr. Wedder- 


40 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


burn has really settled down at Kushton, that quiet little 
place; and how did he like it? 

Very well. Miss Wedderburn opined. The people 
were very kind to him. 

“He does not think of going abroad again?” 

“No, he does not. His nerves were terribly shaken by 
a fire on board ship, where he lost his little girl. And h’S 
wife had been buried only a few weeks before. It was a 
very sad thing.” 

“Mr. Wedderburn was probably much attached to his 
wife and child?” 

“Oh, very much so,” said Lavinia. 

Laurence’s lips tightened. He did not speak for a 
minute or two. 

“And he means to live in Rushton?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Wedderburn, her eyes brightening. 
“His congregation have subscribed to give him a good 
house and furniture; he will want for nothing — the people 
are so fond of him. . . . Indeed, he is a most eloquent 
man. I have often tried to induce dear Miss Kettlewell to 
go and hear him, but she cannot be persuaded.” 

“I am too old to run after new lights,” said Miss Kettle- 
well. “But I want to see your cousin. You should bring 
him here to see Laurence. I don’t mind how often he 
comes, remember. You must invite him — from me.” 

Laurence stood up abruptly. One would have said that 
he was at the end of his patience; but what had he to be 
impatient about? He said that it was late — that he must 
go. Miss Kettlewell heard him affectionately; Jim clung 
to him with all his claws and could hardly be dissevered 
from his coat, then fell to sneezing violently at the door. 
Miss Wedderburn hardly knew whether to be cordial or 
cold. 

“By Jove, this is a pretty tangle!” said Laurence, as he 
rode away from the house. “Here have I brought Fran- 
ces to Denstone and given out that I mean to live at home 
for the future — and have walked straight into the lion’s 


THE WANDERER’S RETURN. 


41 


den! Who would have thought that Silas Wedderburn 
would have turned up at Kushton! I have avoided Den- 
stone all these years, knowing that Miss Wedderburn was 
a relation of his, but I thought that ten years would have 
made us safe. Poor Frances! I cannot hope that she will 
not recognize her father — his name and identity are too 
surely stamped upon her memory for forgetfulness. 

‘‘What shall I do? I must warn her, I think. I would 
sooner not bring the old scenes to her mind, but as her 
father is so near, it would not be safe to keep her in ignor- 
ance. But if I had known that Silas Wedderburn was at 
Rushton, I would never have brought her home. For- 
tunately, he has no legal claim upon her now, and the 
moral claim he himself flung away when he preferred his 
own hfe to hers. But it is an unlucky business.” 

For Laurence had carefully kept his ward out of the 
way of persons who might be likely to inquire into her his- 
tory and circumstances. While Frances was still a child, 
she had been his companion on many a long journey; and 
when she grew older, she had been left at school, first in 
England, and then in France, so that she might receive the 
best education that Laurence Corbet knew how to give. 
His knowledge that Miss Wedderburn was the cousin of 
Silas, had impelled him to this course. Had she not been 
his aunt’s companion, he would have brought Frances to 
Denstone long before. But he was afraid lest the Wedder- 
burns should lay claim to the child whom Silas had so 
cruelly abandoned, and he had resolved that he would 
never give them the chance. For this reason, he had kept 
Frances away from his own home, and had dowered her 
with his surname instead of the name of Wedderburn. 

But now Frances was nineteen, and he could not very 
well keep her longer at school. She herself had begun to 
be anxious to take her place and do her work in the world. 
She had even suggested that, as she had no money of her 
own, she should become a governess and relieve Mr. Cor- 
bet of the burden of her support; Laurence had negatived 


42 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


this proposition, but it had made him feel that she was not 
a school-girl any longer. He must look out for some way 
of launching her in the world. 

The best way seemed to be to bring her to Denstone, 
and install her in his old house with a suitable chaperon, 
who had been found in the person of Mrs. Lester, a distant 
cousin of the Corbet family. Miss Wedderburn would not 
know her — he was sure of that; but it was quite a new fac- 
tor in the business that Silas should have settled at Kush- 
ton. Denstone was six miles away from Kushton — that 
was a comfort; but Laurence felt that he had landed him- 
self in a difficulty, from which it was probable that only 
Frances’s own good sense could extricate him. But he 
had great faith in Frances’s good sense; and he resolved 
to confide in her as soon as ever he could see her alone. 


FRANCES. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

FRANCES, 

As Laurence rode up to his house, which was a low red 
building half smothered in ivy, he saw a white figure flit- 
ting about the flower borders of the garden and guessed at 
once that Frances had taken upon herself the congenial 
task of arranging the vases for the drawing-room. He was 
often surprised to find her so simple, so natural, in her 
tastes; in spite of the roving life that she had led, she was 
as pleased as possible to settle down in a quiet English 
home and accommodate herself to the ordinary life of an 
English girl. She had lived in Germany and Italy and 
France, only spending a few weeks now and then at an 
English watering-place with her guardian — ‘‘Cousin Lau- 
rence” as she usually called him — and she had been edu- 
cated according to Mr. Corbet’s ideas, but not in the con- 
ventional manner of modern school-girls. Thus she could 
speak three languages fluently, but she had learned only 
enough geography and arithmetic as would be absolutely 
necessary to her in ordinary life; she could sing to guitar 
or zither, but she could not play the piano, and she could 
not draw or paint at all. But she was a skilled housewife 
and needlewoman, and she could ride, row or walk all day 
and dance all night without being tired in the least. She 
had a splendid constitution and a very clear and well-bal- 
anced mind, and Laurence himself had trained her to read 
history and philosophy with him and to know a great deal 
about the best Art and the best music, so that although 
she neither executed feeble water-color sketches nor ham- 
mered the keys of a piano, she might be termed an ex- 
tremely well-educated girl. 

But Frances had no high ideas of her own attainments. 


44 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


and she had had a conversation about them with Mrs. Lea- 
ter that morning, which had somewhat depressed her. As 
she came across the lawn to meet her guardian, he noticed 
that there was a troubled look in her hazel eyes, a line on 
her forehead which he was not accustomed to see there. 
She had more than fulfilled the promise of her childhood, 
for she had grown into a very beautiful girl, tall, graceful, 
with clearly-cut features and a peculiar creamy paleness of 
complexion which deepened into a rose flush only when 
she was excited either by pleasure or by grief. The fea- 
tures had indeed altered little, but a great change in her 
appearance had been effected when she first swept up her 
bronze waves of hair into a big coil at the back of her head 
— a change so great that Laurence felt certain that no one 
could recognize the pale child of nine in the stately young 
lady of nineteen. He felt re-assured as he looked at her. 
Neither Mr. or Miss Wedderburn surely, could claim her 
now. 

But she was flushed and disturbed, and he wondered 
what was the matter, as she silently put her hand within 
his arm and walked over the lawn with him. He asked 
no questions, he knew that he should hear in good time all 
that she had to say! Frances kept no secrets from him. 

“Cousin Laurence, am I very different from other girls?” 
she asked at length. 

“Only in being more sensible — and perhaps prettier — 
than the others, my dear.” 

“Ph, please don’t talk nonsense,” said Frances, “I want 
to know, for Mrs. Lester is so much surprised because I 
cannot play on the piano; I said that if it had been neces- 
sary for me to play on the piano, you would have had me 
taught, and then I came into the garden, because I felt 
angry. But I was not rude or unkind to her, you know. 
Cousin Laurence; I hope you understand that.” 

“I understand perfectly. There is not the least reason 
in the world why you should play the piano. I hate 
smatterings. You have learned the things that will be 


FRANCES. 


46 


useful to you, why should you waste your time on super- 
fluities?” 

“It is difficult to know what will be useful to one,” said 
Frances, hesitating a little. “Mrs. Lester seemed to think 
that music was indispensable.” 

“I would rather you were a good cook,” said Mr. Corbet. 

“Yes, I am sure that would be more useful than piano 
playing,” said the girl, with perfect simplicity, “And I 
can sew very well and make my own dresses, and — ” 

“And play a good hand at whist,” said Laurence, “which 
is perhaps more useful than all the other things we have 
mentioned.” 

“You are never serious,” said Frances, reprovingly, 
“when I want to talk to you about my future.” 

“Did you want to talk to me about your future? Well, 
that is really curious, Frances, for so did I.” 

“I shall soon be twenty, you know; I feel. Cousin Lau- 
rence, that I am growing very old.” 

“A perfect Methuselah.” 

“Do listen. Cousin Laurence, and be grave for a min- 
ute or two. I have been thinking over my capabilities, 
because I want to decide how I can best earn my own liv- 
ing.” 

“Do what?” said Laurence. She had no reason to com- 
plain of his want of seriousness now. He looked almost 
angry. 

“Work for myself; earn my own living. Be independ- 
ent,” Frances explained, 

“Independent — of me?” 

The tone was hurt and indignant. But Frances con- 
tinued, quite simply and naturally, as though she were 
saying the only thing that could be expected of her. 

“You have always been so good to me, all through these 
years,” she said, “giving me so many things, teaching me 
so much, and showing the world so delightfully, and now 
bringing me to your own beautiful English home, that I 
begin to be afraid that I have sometimes seemed selfish, in 


46 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


taking everything as a matter of course. Selfish and — un- 
grateful, perhaps — 

‘‘Never, Frances; never, my dear child. You pain me 
when you talk in this way.” 

“I am very sorry. I would do anything rather than pain 
you. But — Cousin Laurence, you must let me speak out. 

I can’t be happy until I do, and I know you like me to be 
happy.” 

“You are right there,” said Laurence, trying to recover 
his lightness of tone. “So go straight on, Frank, and jus- 
tify the name I gave you years ago.” 

“You often reproach me with over-frankness,” said the 
girl, turning her hazel eyes upon him, “and yet I remem- 
ber that you used to say I could not be too frank with you.” 

“Perhaps I did,” said her guardian rather ruefully, “but 
I am not quite of the same opinion now. Come into the 
shrubbery; there is a seat there, and I can bear your 
frankness better when I am sitting down than when I am 
walking about.” 

“It is nothing so very dreadful, my frankness!” said 
Frances, almost indignantly. “I was only going to tell 
you that I had not forgotten what I resolved a long time 
ago — when we first came to England, I think.” 

“When you had reached the mighty age of twelve; well, 
what was your resolution?” 

“It was then that you enquired about my father, and 
could hear nothing of him,” said Frances, with reddening 
cheek and tear-filled eye. “You told me that he had com- 
pletely disappeared, and that you were not going to look 
for him any more — ” 

“And that you were my child and that I should act to- 
wards you as a father or an elder brother ought to act, 
was not that what I said, Frances?” Laurence asked, tak- 
ing her hand in his as they sat together on a rustic bench 
in the shrubbery where the sunshine turned the overhang- 
ing beech leaves into a canopy of gold. 


PRANCES. 


47 


“Yes, and I was very, very glad and very grateful; 
but — ” 

“Well, what does the ‘but’ mean? Have you ceased to 
care for your old guardian; is that what you wish me to 
understand?” 

“Oh, no, Cousin Laurence, no! I could never, never 
cease to care for you. It is because I care for you that I 
resolved not to be a burden on you when I was old enough 
to work for myself; and I think that the time has come — ” 

“For you to leave me, Frances? To go out into the 
world and earn your own living, you foolish child? And 
what is to become of me?” 

“You are always good and kind to me,” said the girl, 
looking at him with candid eyes, grown suddenly tender, 
“but I cannot flatter myself that I am necessary to your 
existence. Cousin Laurence. Why, think of the months 
when I was at school in different places! And now that 
you are at your own home again, you will have many more 
interests than you had before; you will go into Parlia- 
ment, perhaps, or be a magistrate — ” she laughed a little 
at the thought — “and at the right times of the year you 
will shoot and fish and Frances will only be a burden to 
you and no use in the world at all.” 

“Did I ever find Frances a burden to me?” 

“You never showed it, if you did. I don’t think you 
ever did — when I was a child. But now that I am grown 
up I can see that I may be a trouble to you in many ways.” 

“Don’t you think you had better wait for me to tell you 
so?” 

“You never would, dear Cousin Laurence — I hope you 
will always let me call you by that name — ^you would 
sooner suffer the greatest inconvenience than give me a 
moment’s pain. You see how well I know you. So do let 
me go away and earn my own living instead of burdening 
you any longer.” 

Laurence looked at her intently. The flushed cheek and 
kindling eyes showed him that she was thoroughly in 


48 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


earnest, and from the moment that he was convinced of 
this fact, he altered his tone completely. 

‘‘And do yon think it would be right, Frances,” he said, 
laying his hand for one moment on hers, “to deprive me 
of all the pleasure and comfort that I have hoped from 
your presence — ^here in the old house, where there is no one 
to care for me? I have looked forward for years to this 
time, when you would make a home of the place, and 
teach me to love it as I loved it when I was a hoy. For this, 
in some ways, I must confess that I brought you up — in the 
hope that as you grew older, you would see in me a friend 
whom — at least — ^you did not wish to leave.” 

Frances put her hand up to her eyes. “Ah, if you al- 
ways felt in that way, it would be easy. But, Cousin Lau- 
rence, suppose — suppose changes were to come — ” 

Her guardian started up. “Somebody has been talking 
to you!” he said. “Now, Frank, speak the truth; Mrs. 
Lester has been saying that I might get married one of 
these days, and where would you be then?” 

His pleasant smile broadened into a laugh, as Frances 
blushed and looked away. 

“Mrs. Lester is a chattering old woman,” he said, “and I 
will not have you listening to her in preference to me. I 
assure you that I don’t mean to bring a new mistress to 
Denstone, and if I ever contemplate such a desperate step, 
I will consult you first.” 

Frances’s lip curled a little. “Will you be guided by my 
choice? I doubt it.” 

“Wait till the time comes. Now I have news for you, 
which you would have heard sooner but for your utterly 
unreasonable proposal to earn your own living.” 

“Good news?” 

“M^ell — I am afraid not, Frances.” 

“Sit down and tell me. I think — ^you must have heard 
of my father.” Her voice sank, and the color left her 
cheek. 

“Yes, that is what I have done. We have often spoken 


PRANCES. 


49 


of what we should do if he were to appear on the scene, 
Frances, but I did not expect to find ourselves in such close 
quarters with him as we are now.” 

“Where is he?” she asked, her eyes fijced upon her hands, 
which were tightly clasped together in her lap. 

“He is at Eushton — six miles away.” 

“But what is he doing there?” 

“He has a chapel — a charge. They say he is liked and 
respected — gets good congregations and so on.” 

“I believe he was very eloquent,” said Frances, still 
looking down. “I remember some of his speeches — and 
sermons — even now.” 

“Yes, he had that gift,” said Mr. Corbet, dryly. 

They had never made it a rule to keep silence between 
themselves concerning the manner of Silas Wedderburn’s 
escape from the burning ship. Laurence could not do 
other than speak contemptuously of him from time to 
time; Frances, as she grew older, tried sometimes, but 
vainly, to defend his conduct. But it had made a great 
impression upon her; she had been old enough to under- 
stand the extent of its cowardice; and it had deprived her 
of every vestige of love for him which as a child she had 
possessed. But now, hearing that he was so near, she 
tried to frame some excuse for the past. 

“I think,” she said, slowly, “that he was mad with ter- 
ror, and did not know what he said or did. A man should 
not be condemned for what is perhaps only the result of — 
temperament.” 

“Oh, we all know the ways by which cowards justify 
their cowardice,” said Laurence, scornfully. “Don’t be- 
gin to defend him to me, Frances; you know what I think 
of the man. The question is: what are we going to do?” 

“We are surely not likely to meet?” 

“No, possibly not. But think of remote chances. He 
may meet you in the street, or sit opposite you at a public 
meeting, and trace some resemblance. Are you like your 
mother, Frances?” 

4 


60 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘‘I think not. She was very fair and small.” 

“Ah!” said Laurence, somewhat surprised. “I thought 
you must be like her because you are so unlike your fath- 
er. And I took a good look at your father’s cousin who is, 
you know, my aunt’s companion; and I could not see the 
slightest likeness to you there.” 

“I must be like some far away ancestor — if I have any 
ancestors,” said Frances. “At any rate, I don’t think 
that either my father or my Cousin Lavinia would know 
me, if they met me in the street.” 

“In that case, we need not tell them, of course.” 

Laurence spoke rather questioningly, and Frances looked 
at him in some surprise. 

“Oh!” she said. 

“Why need we say a word? They will only trouble and 
embarrass you. They are not likely to guess the truth: 
that Miss Corbet of Denstone is Frances Wedderburn.” 

“But I thought you always said that if you found my 
father, you would speak to him about me — so that his 
mind might be relieved.” 

“I shall wait to see whether his mind wants relieving, 
first. No, Frank; I don’t want to tell him anything about 
you. I am afraid he and his cousin would be perpetual 
thorns in your side. They may be excellent people in 
their way,” he hastened to add, seeing a cloud of perplexity 
on her brow; “but you have been brought up very differ- 
ently from the way in which they would have brought you 
up; and there would be perpetual friction and unhappi- 
ness.” 

“It is not that I want to see anything of them,” said 
P^rances, slowly, “for my father cannot have loved me very 
much, if he abandoned me in that way and Cousin La- 
vinia was not kind to mother or to me; it is only that I 
thought it might be my duty — ” 

“You will end by being a martyr to your sense of duty,” 
said Laurence, affectionately. “You are quite morbid on 
that point. Well, I have no authority over you — ” 


FRANCES. 


61 


“Oh, yes, indeed you have!” 

“I have neither legal claim nor authority, mademoiselle. 
You are free to go to your father or stay with me.” 

“Cousin Laurence, you are unkind!” 

“If you want me to be kind,” said Laurence, with a sud- 
den softening of his voice, and of his expressive eyes, “you 
must tell me that you will stay.” 

“Y^ou really wish me to stay?’’ 

“I think there is nothing I wish for so much in the 
whole wide world.” 

It was almost like a renewal of that first promise of 
friendship and faithfulness when Laurence Corbet held 
the lonely child to his breast on board the boat as it sped 
away from the flaming ship long years ago. But it seemed 
to Frances as if there was a new and curious thrill in Lau- 
rence’s voice, and as if his eyes had grown strangely tender 
as they rested on her face. Her own voice trembled a lit- 
tle as she replied: 

“Then I will stay.” 


62 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE FIRST MEETING. 

"I think,” said Frances, gravely, “that it is time I knew 
some English girls.” 

“Has Mrs. Lester again been lecturing you on your un- 
likeness to other people?” said Laurence Corbet, laughing. 

“Not exactly, but I feel as if she meant me to take to 
heart some of the observations she makes. She says that I 
need ‘young’ society.” 

“I must ask her to make these observations to me and 
to me only.” 

“No, don’t. Cousin Laurence. I like to hear her talk; 
she gives me new ideas. She seems to have led a life where 
everybody always did the correct thing. I don’t think I 
should like it; it sounds rather dull; but I like to hear 
about it.” 

She was sitting with her guardian in the shrubbery 
again; but it was after dinner, in the sweet, summer dusk, 
and Mr. Corbet was smoking a cigar. Laurence lazily re- 
flected that Mrs. Lester, a widowed relation of his family, 
was perhaps not so harmless a person as she had at first 
appeared. She meant well, but she did not seem very 
wise. 

“I’ll tell you what we must do,” he said, after a little 
pause. “The Flemings called the other day when we 
were out. We must return their call. There are two 
girls, you know — distant cousins of mine, second cousins 
once removed of my Aunt, Miss Keturah Kettlewell. Her 
second cousin married a very nice woman, but one whom 
Aunt Keturah did not care about; and she has never taken 
to the girls exactly.” 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


53 


“What are they like? Are they nice girls?” said Fran- 
ces, with brightening eyes. 

“I have not seen much of them since they were children. 
They were pretty little things, then. We will go to-mor- 
row, if you like — ride over to tea, and take Miss Kettlewell 
and King’s Leigh on our way back.” 

“Must I go there?” said Frances, recoiling a little. 

“Why not?” 

“My cousin — Miss Wedderburn — ” 

“You say she is not likely to know you. You will be 
obliged to meet her sometimes, you know, so you need not 
mind and might as well make a beginning.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“You know, Frances,” said Laurence very gently, “that 
I would not for one moment keep you from your own peo- 
ple if I thought you would be happy with them.” 

“I know — I quite understand.” 

“See them for yourself; then you will be quite sure.” 

But he could not fathom all the mysteries of a young 
girl’s mind. Frances was very sensible, very clear-sighted; 
she had fully recognized that her father had been guilty of 
an act of the meanest nature when he took her place in 
the boat that was meant for her, she could not be true to 
the higher instincts of her nature and exonerate him.- Yet, 
in spite of this condemnation of his action, she had an oc- 
casional desire to know more of him; he might be coward- 
ly, but he was her father after all. She could not hon- 
estly have said that she had any affection for him, but it 
made her a little unhappy now and then to know that he 
lived and had cared for her so slightly. The remembrance 
of him had given her a feeling of repulsion from all per- 
sons who professed a great deal, all who claimed to possess 
an unusual amount of compassion for others or posed as 
professional philanthropists. Indeed, she had a touch of 
cynicism in her composition although she did not know 
it, and although it would have been hard to discover by 
her friends to whom she was always gentle and kind. But 


54 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Laurence Corbet had distinguished its growth, and was 
somewhat surprised and secretly disturbed by it, for men 
seldom like to see cynicism in a woman, although they 
may have done their utmost to produce it. And Laurence 
Corbet was certainly responsible for this turn of Frances’s 
mind, for he had not spared her his opinion of her father, 
or of other men who valued their own lives more than 
honor, their own safety rather than that of wife or child. 

Thus he was glad that she should express a desire to 
know the Flemings, whom he had always liked, and hoped 
that she would make friends with the girls. They were 
sure to be worth knowing, he said to himself, having been 
brought up by Margaret Fleming, a gentle, gracious-man- 
nered woman, whom everyone but Miss Kettlewell ad- 
mired. And it was with some pleasurable anticipation, as 
well as some little anxiety, that he set off with Frances on 
the following afternoon, to call at Dr. Fleming’s house. 

Frances looked well on horseback. The graceful figure 
was shown to advantage by her close-fitting habit; the 
clear complexion glowed beneath the plain dark hat: and 
her bronze hair took on tints of gold in the sunshine. Lau- 
rence Corbet was a remarkably distinguished-looking 
man, with something of a foreign appearance in the cut of 
his pointed beard; and the two were sufficiently handsome 
and unlike other people to excite a good deal of interest 
as they rode into the little country town of Rushton, six 
miles from Mr. Corbet’s house. King’s Leigh was on the 
very outskirts of Rushton and the Fleming’s house was in 
Rushton itself. 

The town was small but ancient and possessed some 
monuments of antiquity, which Laurence pointed out as 
they rode through the quaint narrow streets, paved with 
cobble stones, which, in many cases, were named after the 
orders of monks who had once clustered round the fine old 
parish church. Friarsgate, Whitefriars Lane, Blackfriars 
Street, Monk’s Way, were well known thoroughfares in 
Rushton. The church was a magnificent structure, cele- 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


55 


brated all over England, and as Frances drew rein and 
looked up to its lofty tower, which could be seen for miles 
round and served as a beacon in days gone by, she could not 
forbear a rather odd remark — odd, at least, it appeared to 
Laurence Corbet at her side. 

‘‘I wonder that there is any need for smaller places, 
chapels, and little strange churches, under the shadow of 
a tower like that.”- 

“You must not let the Rushton people hear you say so,” 
said Laurence, lightly. ‘T. hear there is a plethora of 
places of worship in the town. Here apparently comes 
one of the persons chiefly concerned — Ah!” 

He broke off with a low-toned exclamation as the man 
in clerical dress on whom his eye had rested came nearer. 
He was crossing the grassy space, dotted with grave-stones 
here and there, round the church, by means of a paved 
pathway, which led to the gate at which Frances and her 
guardian had halted, so that his face was fully turned to- 
wards them as he walked. Laurence glanced at Frances, 
and wished that they had not paused. For he saw at once 
that she, like himself, suspected — even if she were not 
quite certain — that they were face to face with Silas Wed- 
derburn. 

Her father, was this man her father? He wore black 
garments and white linen of unimpeachable glossiness and 
respectability: his soft felt hat was quite the right thing: 
his gloves and silver-mounted umbrella and well-polished 
boots would have done credit to the highest dignitary in 
the land: and yet Frances’s heart sank as she looked at 
him. This was not the enthusiastic, long-haired visionary 
of her dreams, when she had thought of her father in the 
most favorable light: this was a stout man who looked as if 
he liked to be comfortable; whose face was pale and rather 
flabby, whose wide nostrils and loose, hanging lips suggest- 
ed an admirable appreciation for the good things of this 
life. And yet — there was a likeness not to be denied. The 
features were good, the flne eyes could not be mistaken: the 


56 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


personality of the man was still there, although, in some 
remarkable way, obscured and coarsened and sunk to lower 
levels, undreamt of in the past. It struck Laurence as 
possible that Silas Wedderburn had been so degraded in 
his own eyes by the act of cowardice of which he had been 
guilty, that all effort after higher things had henceforth 
appeared unattainable. He was no longer the champion 
of an oppressed race, or the leader of a new colony in a new 
land; he was the sleek, comfortable-looking, much-petted 
minister of a little community in Zion Lane, and liked the 
post better than that of missionary and pioneer. 

Frances had grown very pale. She stared so fixedly at 
the advancing black figure, that Mr. Wedderburn thought 
he saw recognition in her eyes, and lifted his hand to his 
shapeless black hat. But before he had actually raised it, 
she gave her horse a sharp stroke with her whip and 
wheeled round, taking the direction that first offered and 
which chanced to be the right one. Laurence followed 
her, making his way with some difficulty to her side. 

‘‘We need not come into Kushton very often,” he said 
quietly. “Or — we can go abroad again if you prefer it.” 

She did not answer immediately. When she did, her 
words seemed wide of the mark. With head erect, and a 
proud light in her eyes, she said clearly and bitterly: “So 
that is the man who left his child to be drowned or 
burned!” 

Then she set her lips tightly together, and said no more; 
Laurence also was silent, as they made their way across the 
market-place and over an old stone bridge, to a broad old- 
fashioned street of private houses alternating with shops, 
to the iron gate which bore on it a brass plate with the 
name of Thomas Fleming, M. D. 

The house and street were strange to Frances’s wonder- 
ing eyes. The street was not even picturesque: it was pro- 
saic and commonplace: the shops were small and poor, and 
the other houses had a pinched and meager look: Dr. Flem- 
ing’s house was one of the largest, but it was not very large. 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


67 


It was built of dark red brick and stood back from the 
street, with a lawn between its front door and the pave- 
ment. The windows and door were narrow and neat and 
clean, but the sober-hued walls and dark paint made the 
house look dull. 

A man came out and took the horses, then Laurence and 
his ward entered the house and were ushered into a little 
drawing-room, which was delightfully cool and still. ‘‘Mrs. 
Fleming is in the garden, sir: I’ll tell her,” said the maid, 
who seemed to know Mr. Corbet by sight: and forthwith 
she disappeared for a minute or two. Frances was very 
silent and grave: Laurence took the opportunity to place 
one hand on her arm, in a caressing way. 

“Don’t be cast down, Frank,” he said. 

“I am not cast down. I knew it all before,” she re- 
turned, trying to keep a quiver out of her voice. 

“Don’t grieve over the inevitable, then,” he said, drawing 
away his hand. 

“I have nothing to grieve for, I suppose,” she answered. 
But there was a little dreariness in the tone. Laurence 
Corbet wished, for one moment, that he could have kept 
her in ignorance of her father’s act of cowardice. He had 
never regretted it before. 

“My dear Laurence!” said someone at the door, and he 
turned at once, while Frances strained her eyes to see the 
person who entered and spoke so sweetly. It was the 
pleasantest voice, she thought, that she had ever heard. 
“My dear Laurence, I am so glad to see you! How good 
of you to come to-day! And this is your ward? We have 
all been wanting to make her acquaintance. How are you, 
my dear? And what am I to call her, Laurence?” 

“Frances, please,” said the girl, with a sudden thrill of 
pleasure and gratitude. She let both her hands be taken, 
and did not draw herself away when Mrs. Fleming bent 
forward and kissed her, although she was not at all used to 
being kissed. She did not know that there was something 


58 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


a little drooping and forlorn in her attitude which had ex- 
cited the pity of Mrs. Fleming’s motherly heart. 

‘‘Come out into the garden. We are all there, having 
tea under the mulberry tree, and the girls have been play- 
ing tennis with Andrew Derrick. You remember the 
Derricks, Laurence?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Laurence, with a covert smile, as he fol- 
lowed his hostess. and his ward to the garden. For he re- 
membered also what Miss Kettlewell had said concerning 
Chloe. “They have got on in the world, haven’t they? 
Andrew has been to Oxford, I hear.” 

“Yes, Andrew has been to Oxford,” said Mrs. Fleming, 
and there was a touch of reserve in her voice, as if some- 
thing in Mr. Corbet’s tone had not pleased her. She was 
a tall, fair woman, with a sweet plain face, which her hus- 
band and daughters thought beautiful — a woman whose 
eyes beamed kindness upon all the world, and whose mouth 
was never opened save to speak good words. It was the 
intense motherliness of her look and manner which took 
Frances’s heart by storm: and she was quite ready in five 
minutes to join Chloe and Millicent in declaring that their 
mother was the loveliest woman they had ever seen. She 
had the gift of a natural grace which Chloe had inherited: 
Chloe’s soft waving fair hair was also like her mother’s; 
but Chloe was really beautiful, as Frances was quick to 
see; and Milly was the most charming and wayward little 
maiden of eighteen that anyone could wish to meet upon a 
summer’s day. 

Frances was astonished at the difference between the 
front of the house and the back. She was led through a 
large room, about twice the size of the drawing-room, with 
long windows opening upon a large garden and a long 
green tennis lawn. The flower beds were bright with leaf 
and blossom: the walls of the house and garden were cov- 
ered with roses and Virginia creeper; the eye looked out on 
a perfect bower of greenery. A tea-table was set under a 
venerable mulberry tree, not far from the house, and here 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


69 


Chloe^s graceful figure, all in white, was bending over the 
cups, and Milly’s curly head bobbed up and down as she 
played with her pet terrier, whom she was inciting to per- 
form a variety of antics for the diversion of their visitor, 
Mr. Andrew Derrick, the miller’s son. 

Laurence looked at young Derrick with some curiosity, 
remembering his father as a very rough diamond indeed; 
but he acknowledged rather grudgingly, that the young 
fellow had got some polish, at the University or elsewhere, 
and that he was not bad looking. Andrew was tall and 
well-made; he had a bright, handsome face, and laughing 
brown eyes, which seemed to follow Chloe whithersoever 
she went; but Chloe’s eyes were generally downcast, so that 
she did not seem to observe his watchfulness. 

Frances was introduced and heartily welcomed. They 
accepted her naturally and willingly as a sort of new cou- 
sin, and lavished every possible attention upon her. And 
in a very short time, the girl was perfectly happy. It was 
a new sensation to her to be with young English girls, and 
she felt at home with them at once. She was not shy, but 
she did not always respond quickly to advances of friend- 
ship: and Laurence was amused to see her talking and 
laughing as freely and frankly as if she had known his 
cousins all her life. She liked them and they liked her — 
so much was evident. Laurence was pleased and satisfied. 

“And you have scarcely lived in England at all?” he 
heard Milly saying, in tones of wonderment. 

“Scarcely at all. And I think I have hardly ever talked 
to English girls of my own age before. Americans, French, 
Italians, Germans — but very, very few English.” 

“And yet you speak English all right!” said Milly, naive- 
ly, provoking thereby a laugh from her immediate neigh- 
bors. 

“But I am English,” said Frances, laughing, too. Milly 
was childish for her age, and apt to ask awkward questions. 
But no one imagined what the next would be. 


60 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘TTou have no father or mother, have you?” she said. 
^‘That must make a great difference.” 

“Milly!” ejaculated her sister, in the softest possible 
M'aming voice; and even Mrs, Fleming was a little shocked 
by her spoilt child’s abruptness, and tried to change the 
conversation. But Frances chose to answer: the meeting 
with her father that morning had stirred her nature to its 
depths. 

“My mother is dead,” she answered clearly, ‘^Dut my 
father is living. But he did not care for me, and Mr. Cor- 
bet adopted me in his stead.” 

And only Laurence knew the pride and passion which 
lay behind those studiously cold and evenly spoken words. 


FRANCES AND DREAMS. 


61 


CHAPTER VII. 

FRANCES AND DREAMS. 

Dr. Fleming came out from the dining-room, and his 
appearance was very welcome at that moment. He was a 
tall spare man with gray whiskers and keen blue eyes: he 
had a kindly humorous face, which was somehow reflected 
in Milly’s infantine features — perhaps by reason of a sim- 
ilar expression — and a quick step which showed decision 
and activity of character. In his presence, conversation 
became at once more cheerful and more general. 

“1 have only ten minutes,” he said, ^‘so give me a cup of 
tea, Chloe, and then I’m afraid I must be off: I have to go 
to Creswick and shall not be back before nine.” 

There was an outcry of remonstrance from his daugh- 
ters. “Oh, father, you promised to play a game with An- 
drew to-night!” 

“Andrew must come another time,” said the doctor, 
smiling at the young Oxford man. “Perhaps you can get 
Laurence to take his place, Milly, if you beg hard enough.” 

“Tennis is not my line,” said Mr. Corbet, lazily. 

“What is your line?” said the doctor. “What are you 
going to do with yourself now you are in England, Cor- 
bet? Stand for Parliament?” 

“Maybe. There will be a vacancy before long, I hear.” 

“Yes, Dalton is retiring. Andrew, is it true that you 
Radicals mean to run a candidate?” 

Andrew laughed. “I’ve heard something about it, but 
I don’t believe it will come to much,” he said. 

“Ah, it’s that parson at your father’s chapel,” said Dr. 
Fleming, good-humoredly. “He’s quite a firebrand, I 
hear. He has been stirring up people right and left. 


62 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


preaching revolutionary doctrines everywhere, and trying 
to get contributions towards the dockers’ strike. 

Laurence Corbet frowned to himself. It seemed fated 
that Silas Wedderburn’s name should dominate the 
thoughts of Frances that afternoon. He almost hoped 
that she did not notice what was said. But she was not 
just then talking to Chloe, and Andrew Derrick’s next 
words prevented any possibility of misunderstanding. 

‘^You mean Wedderburn?” he said. “Yes, he has come 
i-ecently, and seems popular. My father says he is a clever 
man. I heard him preach last Sunday.” 

“That was why you were not at the Parish Church,” said 
Milly, accusingly. “I missed you, and so did Chloe. Did 
we not, Chloe? We both wondered where you were.” 

Andrew glanced at Chloe, whose cheeks had faintly red- 
dened. He waited a moment,' perhaps hoping that she 
would speak; but as she remained silent, he turned again 
to Dr. Fleming. 

“The sermon was very eloquent and rather socialistic in 
tendency,” he said. “I was interested, I confess, but not 
quite convinced.” 

“Ah, you thresh these subjects out amongst yourselves 
at the Union, I suppose,” said the doctor, holding out his 
cup for a fresh supply of tea. “So Wedderburn is popu- 
lar? Well, in this sleepy place, it is perhaps rather a good 
thing for people to be stirred up now and then. I seQ his 
name advertised as one of the speakers at a big public 
meeting next week.” 

“Yes, but I doubt if he will be there. My father said 
that Mr. Wedderburn had been complaining about his 
health — finds the air trying — thinks Rushton does not suit 
him, or that he has too much to do.” 

“Ah, not a strong man, I suppose,” said the doctor 
shortly; and Andrew suddenly remembered that his father 
liad told the minister to consult Dr. Fleming without de- 
lay. Perhaps he had done so, and Dr. Fleming was with- 
held by professional reasons from continuing the conver- 


FRANCES AND DREAMS. 


63 


sation, for he turned rather abruptly to Laurence and be- 
gan to discuss the state of politics in the country. Then, 
recalling the lapse of time, he jumped up and said that he 
must go. 

‘T hope we shall see you here very often,” he said cor- 
dially to Frances. “My girls have been looking forward 
to your coming.” 

“Thank you, I shall be very glad to come,” Frances said 
with her accustomed directness. 

“Good-bye for the present, then. Chloe, my dear, there 
is some work for you in the dispensary by and by. You’ll 
find full instructions. Send the boy round before seven 
o’clock. I say, Laurence, come here a minute, will you?” 

And then he departed as rapidly as his long strides could 
take him out of sight, with Laurence beside him, their 
voices echoing through the garden for some little time be- 
fore they died away. 

Frances was looking at Chloe with puzzled eyes. “Do 
you help your father?” she asked, almost shyly of the tall, 
graceful girl in white. She had heard of English girls who 
became doctors: but surely Chloe, who looked like a young 
princess, was not going to follow in their steps? And 
Chloe, noting her bewilderment, blushed and smiled. 

“I am my father’s dispenser,” she said. Then, seeing 
that Frances did not seem enlightened, she added an ex- 
planation. “I make up his prescriptions: I am quali- 
fied, I passed the examination a year ago.” 

“Yes, Chloe is awfully clever at dispensing,” said Milly, 
with sisterly pride. “Father always wanted one of us to 
learn it: he said it would be a provision for us if we were 
left without any money, and as Chloe was good at Latin 
and science she made up her mind to learn.” 

“It is a thing that ladies are beginning to do,” said Mrs. 
Fleming, gently adding more explanation, as she saw that 
Frances was astonished. “They can get very good situa- 
tions when they are fully qualified: and if Chloe should 


64 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


ever be in need, she has her profession at her finger-ends, 
BO to speak.” 

“Father thinks every girl should have a profession,” 
said Milly. 

“Oh, I have often thought so,” cried Frances, eagerly, 
“but I could never get anyone to agree with me except 
American girls; and there were very few American girls 
whom I really liked, you know. And German girls know 
nothing but housekeeping, and French girls are rather 
frivolous, I think, and Italian girls — well, they know 
nothing at all! I should like to earn my own living, but 
Cousin Laurence does not like the idea.” 

“He is like Mr. Derrick,” said Milly, looking at Andrew. 
“Mr. Derrick can’t bear it.” 

Again Chloe colored, and this time Frances wondered 
why. 

“Don’t you like women to work?” she asked him, with 
the directness of a child. 

“No, I don’t,” he answered, bluntly, but he looked at 
Chloe and not at Frances as he spoke. “I think a woman 
should be worked for by the men who belong to her and 
care for her: like the lilies of the field she should neither 
toil nor spin.” 

“Yours is a young man’s ideal, Andrew,” said Mrs. 
Fleming kindly. 

“I don’t agree with you,” said Milly, loftily. “Every 
woman should be independent.” 

But Milly’s round face and curly hair made this declara- 
tion so ineffective, that Frances laughed and asked her 
what she desired to be. 

“Oh, I’m going to be a doctor,” said the sprite, tossing 
back her hair. “I don’t care for half measures — nursing 
and dispensing and all that sort of thing. I don’t want to 
be a ministering angel: I want — I think I want,” said Miss 
Milly, with a thoughtful air, “to cut off people’s arms and 
legs, and — dissect.” 

“My dear Milly, you do not know what you are talking 


FRANCES AND DREAMS. 


65 


about/’ said Mrs. Fleming gravely, and Milly subsided at 
once, rather to Frances’s surprise, for she had seldom seen 
so vivacious a young woman completely dominated by her 
mother. American girls were so independent of their 
mothers, as a rule! 

Meanwhile Laurence had walked round to the stables 
with Dr. Fleming, who, after talking on trivial subjects for 
a few moments, made a sudden pause, and said with some 
intensity of meaning: 

^^So that’s your ward? A handsome girl, but you must 
take care of her.” 

“What do you mean? She’s strong enough.” 

“Oh, yes, muscularly. She seems very well. But I 
think she has nerves.” 

“I wish you would say what you mean.” 

“I don’t know that I can,” said the doctor. “Either she 
is naturally of the neurotic temperament — 

“Which she is not,” said Laurence, sharply. 

“Or she has had some shock to-day; possibly this very 
afternoon. Horse stumble, or anything of that kind?” 

“Nothing at all of that kind.” 

“Something, then. Perhaps something you know noth- 
ing about: I could tell it from her eyes, and her hands — 
they were very unsteady. If she has had no sudden shock 
to-day, her nerves must be in a queer state, and you had 
better let me give her a tonic.” 

“She wants a tonic no more than you or I do,” said 
Laurence, a little nettled. “I admit that she was startled 
to-day by something unexpected, and she may not have got 
over it, but — ” 

“That’s all right, then,’* said the doctor, cheerily. “That 
would account for the eyes and hands. She isn’t a young 
woman to be trifled with, I can tell you that, Laurence. 
She is not quite an ordinary girl.” 

He mounted to his seat in the dog-cart and drove away, 
leaving Laurence Corbet more than half offended by his 
manner. Why should a country doctor — Tom Fleming, a 


66 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


mere general practitioner, see more in five minutes and tell 
him more about Frances than he had ever learnt in his life 
before? Frances, a neurotic subject! Frances, a girl with 
nerves? Frances, whom he had brought up on his own 
system, only regretting that it had seemed to make her too 
cold and self-controlled? He was outraged in his tender- 
est susceptibilities by the suggestion. 

He strolled back to the garden, and found the position 
of things changed. The tea-table had been carried away, 
and Milly was looking for tennis balls in the garden bor- 
ders. Andrew Derrick and Chloe were conversing over the 
tennis net, in low tones: Frances had drawn her chair close 
to Mrs. Fleming’s, and was talking eagerly. After a mo- 
ment’s hesitation,, Laurence devoted himself to Milly. He 
was jealous of the Flemings already. 

Frances was saying that she did not know what profes- 
sion to follow even if ‘"‘Cousin Laurence” allowed her to 
choose one. And Mrs. Fleming replied that she had better 
do what Laurence wished. As he was her guardian, he 
was her best adviser. 

“Oh, I know that,” said Frances. “But I dare say he 
will do as Mrs. Lester says he will — marry and settle down, 
and then, you know, I should only be in the way.” 

Mrs. Fleming looked at her keenly. She knew what 
people were saying — that Laurence Corbet had been edu- 
cating a wife for himself, and meant to marry her when 
she was twenty-one. But there was not a trace of self- 
consciousness in Frances’s tone. 

“Laurence does not seem likely to marry at present,” 
Mrs. Fleming said quietly, “so I would not distress myself, 
dear, by thinking of things that are not likely to happen.” 

“Oh, I don’t distress myself,” said Frances in surprise. 
“I only wonder sometimes what I should do. For, of 
course, I should be in the way.” 

“You must come to us if you find yourself in the way,” 
said the doctor’s wife, who could not help speaking af- 


FRANCES AND DREAMS. 


67 


fectionately. And she was touched to see that Frances’s 
clear eyes were instantly dimmed with tears. 

“Do you mean it? Might I really come to you if I were 
lonely or in trouble?” 

“Most certainly, my dear child. We would do all in our 
power to help you. But I don’t think you ought to doubt 
Laurence’s affection and care for you.” 

“I don’t — indeed I am not ungrateful. But one cannot 
always prevent oneself from thinking that changes might 
come; and I feel so unprepared for change.” 

“I should have thought you had had so much of it?” 

“Change of place, yes, but not of people who cared for 
me. I have had very few of those — only Cousin Laurence, 
in fact. You see — I was all alone!” 

And then she stopped, oppressed by thoughts that were 
too painful for her to share! But she cried a little, sur- 
reptitiously, and was rather ashamed of her tears, and Mrs. 
Fleming had tact enough to pretend that she did not see 
them, so that Frances presently recovered voice enough 
to say: 

“You must not think I am sentimental and silly. I 
think it is the seeing you all as a family, so happy, so fond 
of each other, that made me feel lonely. But nobody 
could be kinder than Cousin Laurence, and I should be a 
wretch if I were not happy in his beautiful home.” 

“But there is some unhappiness somewhere,” said Mrs. 
Fleming to herself, looking at the girl’s pale face in which 
a certain pathetic expression had made itself evident. “I 
wonder what it is. I wonder whether Laurence is quite 
the right man to be her guardian? Can it be that he 
means to marry her, and that she does not care for him? 
This pining for independence, this attempt of hers to seem 
contented and happy, does not look as if everything were 
going on rightly.” 

But she had no conception of the root of Frances’s un- 
happiness. The sight of her father had roused in the girl’s 
heart a keen sense of shame for him, a shrinking from 


68 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


him of which she had never before been conscious, and at 
the same time a yearning desire to approach him in some 
way — to upbraid him for his short-comings and to be con- 
quered, perhaps, by his humility and his love! Was it 
not possible? For he was a good man, surely: everybody 
said that he was good — except Laurence; and he took a 
prejudiced view. There must be some explanation for 
that act of cowardice, which Mr. Corbet scorned so deeply: 
it was more than probable that the father, who had cer- 
tainly loved her when she was a little girl, had been un- 
conscious, through illness, through a sudden madness, of 
what he did, when he took that leap into the boat, and de- 
prived her, as it seemed at the moment, of her last chance 
of life! She was his daughter, after all: she could not but 
think there must be an explanation, a motive, to palliate 
what was regarded by Laurence Corbet as a crime. 

She felt soothed and calmed by Mrs. Fleming’s presence, 
but the sight of a happy family life called into being all 
the vague yearnings for a father’s or a mother’s love which 
had secretly tormented her for years. She began to form 
dim plans for helping her father, for heaping coals of fire 
upon his head — the romantic visions of a young girl who 
hardly knows the meaning of life and character. Lau- 
rence would have been furious with himself for bringing 
her to Kushton, if he had known! Indeed he would have 
given the place a very wide berth if he had suspected the 
presence of Silas Wedderburn in that little country town. 

While Frances sat metaphorically at Mrs. Fleming’s 
feet, and Laurence amused himself with Milly, the others 
— Andrew Derrick and Chloe — spoke together in low tones 
as if they did not wish to be overheard. 

“You did not like what I said about women workers,” 
he murmured. “Forgive me — I did not mean to vex you.” 

“I have nothing to forgive,” said Chloe, speaking with 
delicate coldness. She was looking down and the sun- 


FRANCES AND DREAMS. 


69 


light turned her hair into an aureole of gold. Andrew 
thought it became her — as a halo becomes a saint. 

“I do not want to lose your friendship/’ he said, stam- 
mering a little with the effort of saying so much and the 
desire of saying more. “We have been friends since we 
were children — Chloe.” 

He did not often use the name, although she always 
called him “Andrew,” as she had done when they were 
playmates in bygone days. He was afraid of doing any- 
thing that might bring that friendship to a premature 
end. But he ventured a little — now. 

“I hope we shall always be friends,” she said, very sweet- 
ly. In her white dress, with a bunch of sweet-peas at her 
waist-band, she looked very fair, and a mad desire came 
upon the young man to throw himself at her feet, and cry 
aloud, “Do you love me, Chloe? Oh, love me, love me, or 
I shall hate my life! Love me, or I shall die!” But he 
refrained himself. Making love to Chloe was a subtle art: 
no frantic declaration would surprise her into tenderness. 

He dared say no more. And he never guessed that his 
eyes and voice had said for him all that he wanted her to 
know. 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


*^0 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MISS KETTLEWELL’S OPINION. 

‘‘So this is your ward?” said Miss Kettlewell, eyeing 
Frances curiously, when the ceremony of introduction was 
over. Laurence and Frances had not found time to visit 
King’s Leigh on the afternoon of their call upon the 
Flemings, so they had driven over in state next day. Lau- 
rence was not altogether sorry for the change of plan, for 
he felt that Aunt Keturah would prefer to see Frances in 
“a proper dress,” as she called it, rather than in a riding- 
habit, and he had given his ward a hint to make herself 
rather fine for the occasion. 

Frances considered that she knew how to dress. Per- 
haps she had learnt the art from the many French and 
American women whom she had seen abroad: certainly she 
knew how to put on her clothes, which few English girls 
know how to do. For her first visit to Laurence’s aunt, 
she donned a fawn-colored dress embroidered in brown, the 
insertions of embroidery being lined with pale rose-colored 
silk, which re-appeared in the linings of the loose feather- 
trimmed cloak and in the revers and frills of the bodice 
and skirt. It was a very dainty costume and suited her 
admirably; she read a sort of appreciation of it in Miss 
Kettlewell’s eye even while Miss Kettlewell’s lips breathed 
nothing but criticism. 

“Where did you get that frock, child? Paris? I thought 
so. I remember something like it myself when I was a 
girl. You must be very extravagant to get your frocks in 
Paris. Who pays for them, I should like to know? Have 
you a fortune of your own?” 

Laurence was furious, but Frances answered with per- 
fect good humor: 

“No, Miss Kettlewell, I haven’t a penny of my own. My 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S OPINION. 


71 


guardian pays for my pretty frocks.” And she darted a 
look of smiling gratitude towards Laurence. 

“Your guardian! And who made him your guardian?” 
said the terrible old lady. “You, yourself, I suppose.” 

Frances was equal to the occasion. “His own goodness 
of heart, I think,” she said, prettily. 

“Do you hear that, Laurence? You have trained her 
to say the right thing, at any rate,” cried Miss Kettlewell. 
“See here — what do you call yourself? Frances — ” 

“Frances Corbet,” said Laurence, quickly. 

“Let the girl speak for herself, Laurence,” said Aunt 
Keturah, with a wicked gleam of her dark bright eyes. 
“Frances — what ?” 

“My name is Frances, but not Frances Corbet,” replied 
the girl with a quiet clearness, which put her questioner 
to rout, “my real surname I am not at liberty to give you, 
as my guardian does not wish it to be used.” 

“Hoity, toity!” said the old lady, staring at her. “Here 
we have a young lady who knows her own mind! Frances 
— Frances Corbet: well, you may call me Aunt, as Lau- 
rence does; Aunt Keturah. I thought I should mind, but 
I don’t.” 

Miss Kettlewell liked to electrify her hearers. Even 
Laurence started and seemed surprised: Miss Wedderburn, 
who was seated in the room with her knitting, let it fall on 
her knees, and looked steadily at Frances as if she had 
thought her unworthy of her notice before. Everyone 
wondered, in the momentary pause that followed, what 
Frances was going to do. 

“She always does the best thing in the world, the little 
witch,” said Laurence to himself as he watched her. The 
girl went up to the old lady, took the wrinkled hand in 
hers and kissed it. “You could have said nothing that 
could give me greater pleasure, dear Aunt — dear Aunt 
Keturah,” she said, with just the little hesitation and 
modulation of her voice that showed a graceful timidity 


72 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


and reluctance to encroach: “my guardian has always told 
me how good you were to him.” 

“Heaven and earth, Laurence, where did you pick her 
up?” said Aunt Keturah, staring after the girl as she went 
out of the room with Miss Wedderburn, who had been bid- 
den to show her the terrace, which was one of the glories 
of King’s Leigh. “I thought you told me she was a waif 
and stray.” 

“Not exactly. I’m sure I never said that. She comes 
of quite respectable people.” 

“Quite respectable people!” mimicked Miss Kettlewell, 
“I should think she did. Why, Laurence, the girl’s a 
Heron of Hernesdale.” 

“My dear Aunt Keturah! I know Frances’s parentage 
perfectly well. Her father and mother were of no more 
importance than — your Miss Wedderburn. I never pre- 
tended that she was a girl of family.” 

Miss Kettlewell nodded two or three times, and tight- 
ened her lips. “You never knew the Herons as I did, Lau- 
rence. I was at Hernesdale a good deal in my youth.” 
She paused for a moment, and it flashed across her neph- 
ew’s mind that he had heard of some romance in Keturah 
Kettlewell’s early life — a romance connected with a Heron 
of Hernesdale, dead and gone many a long year ago. It 
was from the ending of this romance that Miss Kettlewell 
had given up society, and immured herself in a mere cor- 
ner of her fine old house, where for nearly fifty years she 
had lived the life of a recluse. He was sorry for her, but 
he did not dare to advert to what he knew. After a time, 
she resumed her speech. “Your Frances, whoever she is, 
is the very image of Emmeline Heron before she went 
abroad. And Frances is one of the Hernesdale family 
names. In every generation there is a Frances or two. 
Your Frances is a relation: take my word for it.” 

“It is a perfect impossibility,” said Laurence. 

“Nothing is an impossibility in this world. I wonder 
what became of Emmeline Heron,” said the old lady r^ 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S OPINION. 


73 


flectively. “She went out to Australia with her brother, 
when he was made Governor or something. She married 
out there. You picked up this child on the way home 
from Australia, didn’t you? Are you quite sure she is 
not Emmeline Heron’s grand-daughter?” 

“The most unlikely thing in the world, my dear aunt.” 

“Well, she’s got all the Heron characteristics,” said Miss 
Kettlewell. “I like the girl. She walks like a queen. 
All the Herons have that walk, you know. I didn’t ex- 
pect a girl of that sort: I thought she would be a round- 
faced, pert, plebeian little thing, whose rosy cheeks had at- 
tracted you. I wish you would tell me her name.” 

Laurence laughed and shook his head. 

“If you won’t,” said Miss Kettlewell, with some irrita- 
bility, “then I would advise you to give her your own in 
good earnest.” 

“Eh?” said Laurence, who was surprised. 

“I mean what I say. You need not lose your manners, 
Laurence, although you have been abroad so many years. 
Marry the girl, and the county will accept her. Keep her 
hanging on in this anomalous position, and you will find 
that everyone will look askance at her.” 

“Hang the county!” cried Laurence. 

“By all means. I never thought much of provincial 
society myself,” said Miss Kettlewell imperturbably. “But 
I had an idea that you meant to take a position in the 
county: that was all I meant and you would not be thought 
the worse of for marrying this girl, especially if you would 
tell us all who she was; everyone has been saying for the 
last, five years that you were bringing her up to be your 
wife.” 

“As if Frances were to have no voice in the matter.” 

“Well, of course she hasn’t; she ought not to have. She 
owes everything to you. There ought to be no possibility 
of her saying you nay. I daresay she quite understands 
her position, and is perfectly ready to marry you as soon as 
you throw the handkerchief.” 


74 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“You were always unpractical,” said Miss Keturah, 
severely. “Surely you must see that unless you marry 
her, you are doing the girl a great injury. You are not 
old enough to play the part of heavy father, Laurence: and 
you had better do at once what she no doubt expects you 
to do.” 

“If I had ever thought of such a thing — ” and then he 
paused, “your remarks would make it quite impossible.” 

“What for?” 

“I could not ask a woman to marry me if she or I enter- 
tained the thoughts you attribute to us. Besides I am 
sure that Frances does not think of me except as a guard- 
ian, almost an old man, immeasurably removed from her; 
and — in fact — she was proposing the other day that she 
should go away altogether and earn her own living.” 

“Spirited girl! I thought so,” said Miss Kettlewell, 
approvingly. “She sees what is expected of her and wants 
to get out of it.’’ 

“No such thing!” said Laurence, angrily. 

“Probably,” his tormentor went on, “she has a lover of 
her own age on the sly — 

“You need not insult her. Aunt Keturah. Frances nev- 
er does anything underhand.” 

“Girls don’t know what you mean by honor in love-af- 
fairs, my dear. Some handsome young Italian, I dare say; 
some vivacious young Frenchman, with whom she corres- 
ponds when your back is turned — ” 

“If I thought so,” said Laurence, bringing his hand 
down sharply on the table, “she might go and be a govern- 
ess to-morrow!” 

Miss Kettlewell looked at him and smiled inscrutably. 
Her fine ivory-like features were stirred by a play of some- 
thing like amusement at this speech. The exquisite lace 
on her white head vibrated as if with momentary laughter 
as she replied: 

“Ah, it is as I thought. You are in love with her al- 
ready.” 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S OPINION. 


76 


“I am nothing of the kind,” said Laurence, furiously. 
And then he checked himself, for Frances and Miss Wed- 
derburn were at the door, and he rose, saying in rather 
constrained tones, that it was time to go. 

“Come and see me again, soon, child,” said Miss Kettle- 
well, turning her wrinkled cheek to Frances to be kissed. 
“You remind me of some friends of mine, in my youth. 
Laurence, you had better ascertain all about Lady Emme- 
line’s marriage. If your Frances turns out one of the 
Herons, I’ll take care to remember her in my will, and the 
Flemings may go a-begging for all I care.” 

As it happened Frances’s eyes rested on Miss Wedder- 
burn’s face while Miss Kettlewell was speaking, and she 
was struck by a curious and indefinable change that took 
place in it at that moment. It was always pale, but she 
turned to a sickly greenish hue which made Frances think 
that the companion was about to faint. She made a step 
forward, and uttered a slight exclamation of alarm, which, 
however, passed unnoticed by Miss Kettlewell and Lau- 
rence, who were exchanging a few not very amicable last 
words; and Miss Wedderburn, instantly recovering herself, 
frowned, angrily, and made a sign of such evident repul- 
sion that Frances retreated behind her guardian and took 
no further notice of the change in her appearance. But 
she had material for questions with which to harass Lau- 
rence a little, while they were driving home. 

“Cousin Laurence — ” 

“Drop the cousin, Frances. Let me hear my name with- 
out a title, will you? I should like it better.” 

“Oh, of course, if you like it better — Laurence, then, 
did you notice how white Miss Wedderburn turned when 
your aunt talked about her will?” 

“No, I didn’t see. But I daresay Miss Wedderburn 
hopes that something may come her way when my aunt 
dies.” 

“Oh, I hope so,” said Frances pityingly. “She must 


76 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


have had a hard life of it. I do not think I should care 
to live ten years with Miss Kettlewell.” 

^‘No doubt she has suffered a good deal,” said Laurence, 
somewhat grimly. Then came the question he had dread- 
ed. 

“What did your aunt mean about — the Herons? And 
who are the Herons, Laurence?” 

“The Herons are very grand people in this part of the 
world, my dear. The Earl of Hernesdale is really a great 
personage, and his son. Viscount Heron, is the popular 
young man of the neighborhood. My aunt knew them all 
very well when she was young, and she has a fancy that 
you resemble them — that is all. An old woman’s fancy, 
of no importance; for of course you can have no possible 
connection with the Hernesdales.” 

“Of course not.” 

“My aunt was a beauty in her time, and engaged, I be- 
lieve to the Lord Heron of her day. He was drowned one 
foggy night in crossing the fens, and she never went into 
the world again. It has been a lonely life for her. We 
must humor her whims a little, when we can.” 

“She was very kind to me,” said Frances, dreamily, and 
then she sat still and asked no more questions, for which 
Laurence was thankful. 

Miss Kettlewell sat for some time in her chair, quietly 
musing, when her visitors had gone. Her favorite Jim 
had gone out for a walk; and presently his mistress began 
to feel lonely, for her companion had also disappeared. 
She rang the bell rather impatiently, but when Miss Wed- 
derburn was summoned, the old lady was astonished and 
annoyed. For Miss Wedderburn was dressed in outdoor 
garments and remarked coldly that she wanted a little 
fresh air and was going out. 

“And where are you going, I should like to know,” said 
Miss Kettlewell, snappishly. ' 

“I am going into the town.” 

“To see your cousin, I suppose. Take care, Lavinia, 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S OPINION, 


77 


you will be town’s talk before you know where you are, 
and you won’t like that, I’m certain. The man doesn’t 
mean to ask you to marry him, or he would have done so 
before this; and it’s no use running after him.” 

‘T suppose,” said Miss Wedderburn, in an injured 
voice, “that I may be allowed to exchange a few words oc- 
casionally with the only relation that remains to me in the 
world?” 

“Oh, I’ve no objection. I only caution you for your own 
good not to make a fool of yourself.” 

Lavinia Wedderburn’s cold eyes flashed. But she con- 
trolled herself and answered placidly. “I am not in the 
habit of doing so. Miss Kettlewell. I know my cousin very 
well, and I only approach him when I have important af- 
fairs to discuss with him. I have important affairs to dis- 
cuss to-night.” 

“Let me know when the day’s fixed, and I’ll give you a 
wedding present,” said Miss Kettlewell, disagreeably. “And 
open the window for Jim, will you? Don’t you hear him 
sneezing? What time shall you be back? I object to 
dining alone, as you know.” 

“I will try to be back in time for dinner,” said Miss 
Wedderburn, resignedly. “Even although we may be in 
the midst of an interesting conversation of a most im- 
portant nature, I will try to break it off at the proper 
time — ” 

“Oh, stay the evening, by all means,” said Miss Ket- 
tlewell, in a snappish tone. “I don’t want you to make a 
martyr of yourself, Lavinia. Jim is just as good a com- 
panion as you are, when you have not had your own way, 

I don’t want to interfere with your conversation with the 
Eeverend Silas.” 

“Thank you. Miss Kettlewell,” said Lavinia meekly. 
But the meekness was all external; she was raging in- 
wardly. 

“I think she wants to propose to him,” said the old lady 
to herself, when Miss Wedderburn was safely out of hear- 


78 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


ing. “Perhaps she means to do it to-night. I shouldn’t 
be sorry if she did — if he accepted her. Miss Wedderburn 
has been here a trifle too long. The Fleming girls would 
be more cheerful companions, or that girl Frances — as 
handsome a creature as I ever saw, and as like Emmeline 
Heron as two peas. There must be some connection if 
only Laurence would take the trouble to hunt it out.” 

“Hateful old woman,” the companion was meanwhile 
saying to herself, as she hurried along the Kushton road. 
“She has no love for a single person in this world, I be- 
lieve; no pity, no sympathy, not the slightest delicacy of 
feeling. I could put up with her jeers and jibes, if I 
thought she meant to provide for me after her death, but 
I know she does not mean to leave me a single penny. She 
has no heart. And unless I marry Silas, I shall have to go 
out into the world again and seek another situation — I 
can’t do it, I can’t do it. I am too old. I must marry 
Silas. I would rather die than bear the poverty, the pri- 
vation that I suffered before I found a home with Miss 
Kettlewell: a thousand, thousand times I would prefer to 
die.” 

And Lavinia Wedderburn’s cold blue eyes traveled sul- 
lenly to the rows of pollard willows which marked the 
course of a little sluggish stream between Rushton and 
King’s Leigh. 


THE MINISTER’S STUDY. 


79 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE MINISTER’S STUDY. 

Mr. Wedderburn’s study was an exceptionally comforta- 
ble room. It was not large — the house itself was not large, 
although a good one in its way, and it was furnished in a 
solid, old-fashioned style, with mahogany and crimson 
“rep;” but the glowing tints of the curtains and cushions 
looked well with the dark wood, and the minister’s books 
formed a goodly phalanx behind the glass doors of the 
handsome bookcases. The big writing-table was well pro- 
vided with cut-glass inkstands, quill pens, blotting pads 
and stacks of papers; but it was a little too neat to look like 
the table of a man who worked very much. Traces of 
Mr. Wedderburn’s occupations were more usually found 
on a small table near the window beside which, on summer 
evenings, a big chair was pulled up, and where a half- 
smoked cigar, a flower in a glass vase, a book laid face 
downward, would show that the minister had found pleas- 
ant means of passing away a vacant half-hour. 

The furniture of the room had been presented to him 
by his congregation, and especially Matthew Derrick, the 
miller, the father of that Andrew Derrick who was so as- 
siduous in his attentions to Chloe Fleming. The people 
of Zion Lane Chapel had done more for Mr. Wedderburn in 
that way than for any other minister. Silas Wedderburn’s 
reputation as a preacher was so great, and it was thought 
such a wonderful thing to secure him for Rushton, that 
they had been ready to oflier him anything within their 
means. They considered it a lucky chance that he had 
overworked himself in a great manufacturing town; and 
needed a quiet country life, and Matthew Derrick had 
himself pleaded with the popular preacher to come to 


80 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Rushton and recruit his strength. “There’s naught to do 
in particular,” the miller had said, “and Rushton’s a fine 
little place, though a small one. We’ll give you a nice 
house and a good stipend and we’ll begin building opera- 
tions for a new chapel, if you’ll come to us, Mr. Wedder- 
burn.” So Mr. Wedderburn came, and had hitherto not 
regretted it; although he considered it a drawback that the 
scene of his ministrations lay so near the place at which 
his cousin Lavinia lived. His cousin Lavinia worried him 
a good deal sometimes. 

He laid down his book with a sigh when the servant-girl 
announced her on the evening after Frances’s call upon 
Miss Kettlewell. He was sure that she had come in one 
way or another, to disturb his peace. And he looked like 
a man who loved peace, who loved his ease. The dark 
hair was thin over his forehead and showed the fine brow 
distinctly: it was the lower part of the face that had 
changed, that had grown almost sensual and almost coarse. 
His waistcoat was unbuttoned: his feet were encased in 
large wool-work slippers: his tie had slipped round and 
was under one ear, and his coat was decidedly old and 
shiny. The book that he had laid aside was a yellow- 
backed novel, and a glass of wine flanked the vase of roses 
that stood at his left hand. Lavinia suspected him of us- 
ing the flower vase for a screen to his glass, should an in- 
temperate teetotaller of his congregation chance to call. 
He looked altogether at his ease, and it was quite apparent 
that in order to feel entirely at his ease he must be some- 
what slovenly in his dress and self-indulgent in his habits. 
He moved a little in his great arm-chair as Miss Wedder- 
burn came in, but did not rise: he offered her his hand, 
which was white and soft and flabby, in spite of its origin- 
ally fine shape and tapering finger-tips. 

“You look comfortable,” said Miss Wedderburn, regard- 
ing him with disfavor. 

“And you, my dear Lavinia, look hot and tired. Per- 


THE MINISTER’S STUDY. 


81 


mit me to offer you a chair and — will you take a glass of 
wine and a biscuit?’’ 

“Thank you, no. I doubt whether your income is suf- 
ficient for these expensive luxuries, Silas.” 

“Do you not think I am the best judge, Lavinia, of what 
is right and fitting for me to buy?” 

They always sparred in this way when they met, but on 
this occasion Lavinia was the first to control herself. 

“Perhaps so, Silas,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “I 
am sure I didn’t mean to say anything to offend you. I 
came to consult you about one or two things, that was all. 
You know how I value your excellent advice.” 

Mr. Wedderburn’s dark eyes, that had at first rested on 
her with furtive suspicion, opened a little wider, and a 
more complacent expression crossed his face. He pulled 
down his waistcoat and drank off the rest of his wine. 
“Well, Lavinia,” he said, “well, well! What can I do for 
you this evening? You are sure you will not take a glass 
of port? No? Well, it is rather heating, but the doctor 
orders it for me, because my circulation is so defective — 
and what is it you want, Lavinia? My advice?” 

His voice was rich and mellow, but somewhat unctuous; 
there was a slight huskiness in it now and then, which only 
disappeared completely when he was very much excited, 
as in speaking or preaching in public. Lavinia admired 
his voice exceedingly: and so did his congregation. 

“It is partly concerning matters at King’s Leigh that I 
wish to consult you,” she said dryly. She sat facing him, 
in a stiff attitude: she had chosen the hardest and most un- 
comfortable chair that could be found in the minister’s 
study. He lay back on his crimson cushions, unbuttoned 
and at ease: she sat upright before him, neat, well-dressed, 
in sober colors: her neatly waved black hair plastered down 
on either side of a shining forehead, her nose unduly prom- 
inent, her lips reduced to one straight line. She presented 
a ‘ffadylike” but not an attractive appearance: and Silas 
Wedderburn’s thoughts, which were apt to rove, flew from 
6 


82 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


her to the face and figure of a young girl whom he had 
seen on horseback the day before, just outside the church- 
yard. But why the one should suggest the other, he could 
not say. 

“I hope our venerable friend is well,” he said, with 
lumbering courtesy that roused Miss Wedderburn’s ire. 

‘‘Well! she is well enough: she is never anything but 
well, in spite of her age, but why you should call her ven- 
erable, I am sure I do not know. Anyone who has less 
claim to be venerated, I have never met. She is cold, cal- 
lous, cruel: she — ” 

“Ah, Lavinia! Lavinia! be merciful,” said Mr. Wedder- 
burn. “Eemember, dear Lavinia, that she is rich. To be 
rich is to be venerable, my friend. The gifts of Provi- 
dence should always receive respect.” 

“The gifts — perhaps,” said Lavinia, “but not the per- 
sons on whom the gifts are lavished, and by whom they 
are wasted. Listen, Silas: the wretched old woman whom 
you call venerable is contemplating a new will. She made 
one some time ago — you know I told you,” and her voice 
quivered a little, “in which she left me an annuity and 
everything else to charities. It was for that reason that 
I begged you to wait when you asked me — ” she cast down 
her eyes modestly — “to be your wife. I thought that if I 
left her, she might alter the disposition of her will, and 
leave me nothing, and I could not bear to come to you 
penniless, Silas, dear.” 

She put her handkerchief to her eyes and discreetly 
wiped away a tear, while Silas winced and looked away. 
True he had asked her to marry him, but the engagement 
was a secret, and he hoped to end it before it became pub- 
licly known. 

“Well, what has happened?” he asked. 

“She has been talking so much of the Flemings,” Miss 
Wedderburn complained. “She seems to be quite getting 
over her dislike of them, although I assure you I have fos- 
tered it as much as possible. I have represented to her 


THE MINISTER’S STUDY. 


83 


how intensely horrible it will be to think of Chloe with 
her pestle and mortar, making pills perhaps in the draw- 
ing-room, and that foolish little Milly with her fast ways 
dancing all over the place. But all I said seemed to have 
no effect, and I was beginning to despair, when all at once 
a change has come over the scene, and she is suddenly en- 
amored of quite another person.” 

“Yes, who is it?” said Mr. Wedderburn. 

“Why, that girl who is a ward — as he says — of Mr. Cor- 
bet’s. Corbet of Denstone; you know him, surely; there 
is some talk of his standing for the county, on the Conser- 
vative side, of course.” 

“I know the name.” 

“He has come home to settle, it appears; and he brings 
with him this girl, his ward, he calls her — ^his daughter 
more likely, in my opinion: and Miss Kettlewell has taken 
the most violent fancy to this girl Frances — Frances Cor- 
bet, as they call her — and says that she must be related 
to the Herons of Hernesdale, whoever they may be — ” 

Mr. Wedderburn shrugged his shoulders. “The fancy 
will pass, my good Lavinia, as other fancies have passed. 
You need not excite yourself about them.” 

“She spoke to-day of remembering her in her will. And 
if she makes a new one, Silas — oh, I sometimes think that 
she is not in her right mind!” 

“Do not say so, Lavinia. It is not your place. Leave 
it to other people to say things of that kind. They will 
only bring discredit upon yourself.” 

“I shall not say anything indiscreet: you may be sure of 
that,” said Miss Wedderburn, somewhat sullenly. “But I 
have another idea. Silas, have you seen Mr. Corbet?” 

“Hot to my knowledge,” said Silas, readily enough. 

He spoke the truth. He had never heard Laurence Cor- 
bet’s name when he was on the Attaman: or if he had 
heard, he had forgotten it. And his face had faded from 
his memory: there was no reason why he should remember 
Mr. Corbet’s face better than that of a dozen others of his 


84 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


fellow passengers. When he had met Mr. Corbet in the 
street, he had not recognized him in the least, although he 
had thought vaguely: ‘‘This is a face that I fancy I have 
seen before.’’ 

“Do you not know,” said Lavinia, “that he was one of 
the passengers on board the ship that took fire and went 
down in the Pacific? Oh, Silas, were you not on that boat, 
too.^” 

“Lavinia,” said Mr. Wedderburn, shading his eyes with 
his hand, “the remembrances which you call up are far too 
painful for me to bear, I would rather that you did not 
recall them to my mind. My nerves have never been what 
they were before that dreadful scene. The vision of that 
beloved child whom I failed to rescue, esteeming, as I did, 
my work of the first importance — that painful necessity of 
self-preservation — ” 

“My idea is,” said Lavinia, interrupting him ruthlessly, 
“that the girl whom Mr. Corbet has brought home with 
him is your daughter.” 

“What?” said Silas, suddenly lowering his hand. His 
face turned pale. He straightened himself in his chair 
and looked hard at his cousin. “Tell me what you mean,” 
he said. 

“She is called Frances,” said Miss Wedderburn, slowly. 
“She is nineteen — the age corresponds, does it not? She 
acknowledges that Corbet is not her own name, and re- 
fuses to tell what her own is. She is the adopted child of 
Laurence Corbet, who was on the burning ship with you. 
Now does not that look as if she were your little Fanny, 
whom you left behind when you escaped?” 

Silas Wedderburn made a deprecating gesture with his 
white hand. 

“You put the matter a trifle coarsely, my dear Lavinia,” 
he said. “Heaven knows what pain it caused me — the 
choice that I had to make was hard indeed: but for the 
sake of the Cause that I represented I sacrificed my natural 
feelings and preserved my life. I grieve to say that an 


THE MINISTER’S STUDY. 


85 


unkind view of the situation was afterwards presented to 
the committee which I served; resulting in the choice of 
another man to go back to the Islands and conduct the 
enterprise of colonization. It has since failed. But I 
have prospered,” said Mr. Wedderburn, with suave elation, 
“and the tongues of evil men have not prevailed against 
me. Nevertheless, I deprecate any allusion to that troub- 
lous time; and I must confess, my dear Lavinia — ” here 
his voice grew hurried and a little breathless — “that I do 
not wish the story to be revived in Eushton, and especially 
within hearing of Mr. Derrick, my kind friend, Mr. Der- 
rick.” 

“You needn’t make such long speeches to me, Silas,” 
said his cousin, impatiently. “What I want to know is, 
do you remember whether there was any other child on 
board called Frances, about the age of 3'^our Fanny? Had 
Mr, Corbet any friends with him?” 

“I have no information to give you. I did not burden 
my memory with any such particulars,” said Mr. Wedder- 
burn. “There may have been a dozen children of that 
name on board for all I know. You will remember that 
I embarked from one of the islands, and had been on 
board a very short time when the fire took place.” 

“You can tell me nothing, then?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You are sure that your little girl — 

“Spare me, Lavinia, I cannot talk of her.” 

“Well, I suppose I was mistaken,” said Miss Wedder- 
burn. “I did think for one moment that she was your 
daughter, and that if so — what a splendid chance for us!" 

Silas uncovered his shaded eyes again. “What do you 
mean, Lavinia?” 

“Don’t you see?” said Lavinia, with energy. “Suppose 
your daughter inherited all Miss Kettlewell’s riches? Sup- 
pose your daughter were Mr, Corbet’s adopted child? 
Would she not provide for her relatives? for her father? 


86 A VALUABLE LIFE. 

for her cousin? We should live in clover, Silas, for the 
rest of our life.” 

Silas moved uneasily. Perhaps he had an inner con- 
viction that his daughter, if she still lived, might remem- 
ber certain details that were not entirely to his credit; at 
any rate, the suggestion made him unhappy. He cloaked 
his real anxiety by a melancholy sigh. 

“We are not so fortunate, Lavinia. We shall never see 
my sweet little child again.” 

“Should you know her, if you saw her, do you think?” 
queried Lavinia, somewhat brutally. 

Mr. Wedderburn experienced the sensation of an elec- 
tric shock. He suddenly remembered the face of the girl 
whom he had seen on horseback near the church. It had 
startled him then; it recurred to him now with overwhelm- 
ing significance. He had known the face! 

“It is quite impossible, Lavinia,” he said, with sudden 
decision. “My daughter was lost on board the Attaman. 
If she had been rescued, should I not have heard of her? 
I am not so obscure, so unknown,” he added, with a slight 
flourish of his hand, “that I could not be heard of if my 
child had wished to find me. I have nothing to do with 
the Corbets, or they with me. My good Lavinia, you have 
found a mare’s nest.” 

“Oh, very well,” said Lavinia, ill-temperedly. “If that 
is the way you take my efforts to assist you, I will do no 
more. I thought I had found a way of helping you out of 
your difficulties.” 

“My difficulties, Lavinia?” 

“Of course, I know, Silas, that you are deeply in debt.” 

“Good heaven! Think what you are saying, Lavinia. 
If it were known in Eushton that I was in debt, my influ- 
ence would be gone. Old Derrick has a horror of debt: he 
has told me so. If he took away his support — ” 

Silas was positively trembling. Lavinia put out her 
hand and laid it on his shoulder. “Trust me,” she said. 


THE MINISTER’S STUDY. 


87 


half tenderly, half compassionately, “and I will tell no- 
body. You are in debt?” 

It had been simply a guess on her part. 

“Yes — deeply.” 

“And-the girl? You don^t think she is your daughter?” 
“I — I — God knows!” said Silas Wedderburn. 

And the woman at his side despised him, although she 
loved him with all her heart. 


88 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


it 


CHAPTEK X. 

MISS KETTLEWELL’S PROJECTS. 

The summer merged into autumn, without bringing 
much change into the lives of those with whom we are con- 
cerned. Frances made many acquaintances, and advanced 
further in friendship with the Flemings; she visited Miss 
Kettlewell also from time to time, and was stealthily 
watched by Miss Wedderburn. Silas Wedderburn found it 
necessary to spend a few weeks at the sea-side — Matthew 
Derrick paying his expenses — and Frances did not there- 
fore come across him in the streets of Kushton, and, indeed, 
almost flattered herself that he had left the town. But 
Milly undeceived her. Milly knew all about the affairs of 
the Chapel in Zion Lane, although her own family were 
staunch Churchgoers. Andrew kept her well informed 
upon the subject, which he often heard discussed in his 
father’s house. 

‘‘Mr. Wedderburn is so delicate, you know,” Milly said, 
“that the congregation thought it better for him tO' go 
away for a little while. It seems very funny to have to do 
just what your congregation tells you, doesn’t it? I am 
sure Mr. Greene, our Vicar, would not like it at all.” 

“Why! is Mr. Wedderburn delicate? He seems a big 
strong man,” said Frances, half against her will. 

“Nerves, my dear, nerves, and over- work and overstrain 
and all that sort of thing. They say he has had great sor- 
rows,” said Milly, her gay childish face overcast for a mo- 
ment. “There was some sort of tragedy in his earlier 
years — ” 

“Tragedy!” exclaimed Frances. She could not keep 
the mocking note out of her expressive voice. 

“Why not?” said Milly, facing round upon her. “Do 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S PROJECTS. 89 

^ou know anything about him, Frank? Wasn’t it a trag- 
edy after all?” 

“I know nothing about a tragedy. I have heard of Mr. 
Wedderburn of course,” said Frances, trying to speak 
quietly. “Tragedy is a big word, Milly, that is all. When 
he comes back, I have sometimes thought I should like to 
go and hear him preach.” 

“Well, so should I, but mother does not care about my 
going. But you could go; you have nobody to prevent 
you — at least I should not think that Laurence would 
mind.” 

Frances was silent; she was not sure. She had noticed 
that Laurence had lately shown a curious irritation when- 
ever she adverted to the position or character of her father. 
It was as if he were afraid that Silas Wedderburn might 
in some way acquire an influence over Frances — an influ- 
ence which Laurence would have disliked and deplored. 
And therefore Frances was growing silent on the subject, 
but thought of it all the more intently through the golden 
months of autumn where she was being introduced to a 
kind of life which she had never known before. Shooting 
parties, luncheons, picnics, garden-parties, came in quick 
succession for there were a good many large and hospitable 
houses in the neighborhood of Eushton, and Laurence Cor- 
bet had always been popular, so that his “ward” came in for 
a good share of the pleasant things going. But the great 
excitement of all would come in October, when the Hernes- 
(1 ale’s were to give a really great ball, and where the Flem- 
ings as well as Frances would be present. 

Frances was perhaps less excited and impressed than she 
was expected to be. She had seen a good deal of foreign 
society, and had been to a big ball or two in Eome and 
Florence and other parts of the world; so that she felt im- 
measurably older and more experienced than Milly Flem- 
ing, for instance, who was to “come out” at Lady Ilernes- 
(lale's, and had never been to any balls at all. Chloe said 
that she cared very little whether she went or went not; but 


90 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


even Frances noticed that she looked bright at the prospect 
when she w'as assured that some of her friends would be 
present, and when Andrew Derrick asked her if she would 
not keep a dance for him. But Milly’s excitement as the 
day drew near was so great that she could not keep it out 
of her conversation when she went to see Miss Kettlewell, 
although her mother had given her a gentle hint that she 
had better not talk too much to Aunt Keturah about her 
gaieties. 

Aunt Keturah had quite a tea party one afternoon. It 
was so fine and warm that tea was served upon the terrace, 
and Miss Kettlewell herself, muffled in soft white shawls 
until she looked almost like a mummy, except for her bright 
dark eyes, presided at the tea-table. Frances was there, 
and the two Fleming girls. Miss Kettlewell seemed to like 
to see them together, although, as Milly said, it was chiefly 
because of the pleasure it gave her to tell them how verv 
superior Frances was to them both, and how very much she 
resembled Keturah’s friend. Lady Emmeline Heron. 

“Perhaps you will see her portrait if you go to this dance 
at the Hernesdales,” she said, nodding sagaciously. “It 
used to hang in the library. Lord Heron would show it to 
you, Frances, if you asked him. He comes to see me some- 
times; he is a nice boy.” 

“Oh, isn’t he!” said Milly, unexpectedly. Then she grew 
pink all over, and was silent. 

“And pray, how do you know whether he is nice or not?” 
said Miss Kettlewell with a frown. 

“I know him — a little,” said Milly demurely. Then, 
after a pause, “We used to go birds’ nesting together.” 

“Oh, when you were children! I remember, you met 
him here sometimes.” 

“We used to have great fun, didn’t we, Chloe?” said 
Milly. “At least, Charlie and I had — oh, but I forgot I 
must not call him Charlie any more.” 

should think not,” said Chloe, smiling. “I can fancy 


MISS KETTLE WELL’S PROJECTS. 91 

Lady Hernesdale looking very much astonished if you 
did.” 

‘‘And why should she look astonished?” exclaimed Miss 
Kettlewell, who had an ungracious w'^ay of contradicting 
Chloe whenever she made a statement. “In what way is 
Lady Hernesdale superior to us, do you think? She was 
only a cotton manufacturer’s daughter, and of no family at 
all. You on one side at least,” — with a rather vicious em- 
phasis on the words — “are greatlj' her superior.” 

The girls were silent; they very much resented the old 
lady’s veiled attacks upon their mother’s family; but they 
had been trained to treat Aunt Keturah with respect and to 
remember that she had peculiarities.” Many was the bat- 
tle-royal they had had with her in their childhood; but as 
they grew older, they were better able to command them- 
selves. For a few minutes, therefore, they let Miss Kettle- 
well’s tongue run on unchecked. 

“And you, my dear,” said the old lady, turning to Fran- 
ces, “you have certainly no need to allow yourself to be 
patronized by Lady Hernesdale, remember that, and stick 
up for yourself. You belong to the elder branch, you know 
Emmeline Heron’s brother was the Earl, and these present 
people are the younger branch, which came in when the 
old Earl died. You are very like your grandmama, my 
dear, and I am proud to see you in my house after all these 
years: for it was to your great-uncle that I was betrothed so 
many, many years ago — ” 

“What does she mean? What is she saying?” Frances 
cried, turning to the others with a face as white as death. 
Chloe and Millicent had sprung to their feet, with startled 
wondering gaze. Miss Kettlewell was looking before her 
with a strange smile on her face, and a curious film before 
her brilliant eyes. Lavinia Wedderburn came to the res- 
cue. “She will be all right in a minute or two,” she whis- 
pered to Frances. “Her mind goes astray now and then, 
and she thinks she is speaking to people of a former genera- 


92 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


tion. It is quite usual with aged persons to have moments 
of that kind.’’ 

It seemed as though Miss Wedderburn were right. The 
film cleared away from Miss Kettlewell’s eyes, which looked 
as bright and hard and keen as ever. The smile faded from 
her lips, and was succeeded by an expression of annoyance. 

“Why are you all staring at me in this way?” she said, 
irritably, ‘T am not ill. I only fell asleep for a minute or 
two. Haven’t we finished tea, yet?” 

“Quite, Aunt Keturah, thank you,” said Chloe, with 
great promptness. “Shall I give you my arm into the 
house? The air seems a little chilly.” 

“No such thing,” said Miss Kettlewell, sharply. “Chilly! 
What will you say next? Go and show Frances the garden, 
and Millicent can stay with me. Lavinia, you have not 
given Jim any cream; I msh you would not be so forget- 
ful.” 

“There is none left I will fetch it,” said Lavinia, casting 
a rather spiteful glance at the offended Jim, who was sitting 
in a stately manner before a well filled saucer with an ex- 
pression Avhich seemed to say that plain, vulgar milk was 
the last thing he could touch. 

“I believe she put it all into her own cup,” said Milly 
confidentially to her kinswoman, when Miss Wedderburn 
was out of sight. “I saw her empty the jug. Aunt Keturah. 
She doesn’t like Jim one bit, although he’s a perfect an- 
gel” 

^liss Kettlewell looked benignant. Innocent Milly had 
said the very thing that pleased her. For once she felt in- 
clined to encourage the child to talk. 

“You are very much taken up with this ball, I suppose,” 
she remarked grimly. “I am glad Lady Hernesdale asked 
you, it shows that she remembers the proposed connection 
between the families. Otherwise a doctor’s daughters 
could hardly have expected such an invitation.” 

“Father is quite as good as the Hernesdalesl” said Milly 
indignantly. “Even if we are not as rich, and can’t dress 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S PROJECTS. 


93 


as well as some people, we are of a good old family, Aunt 
Keturah — you have often said so yourself!” 

‘‘Yes, yes, and that’s all very well; but riches and dress 
make a difference.” 

“Not to some people! Do you know. Aunt Keturah, I 
met Charlie — Lord Heron, I mean — in the road the other 
day; and I had on my oldest frock and gloves ‘with holes 
in them, but he didn’t seem to see them one bit.” 

“Naturally he would not tell you of them,” said Miss 
Kettlewell, with her croaking laugh. 

“Oh, I think he would! He always used to tease me 
about my frocks and my inky fingers, years ago. I don’t 
believe he would have minded saying ‘Hallo, Curlywig, why 
don’t you mend your gloves?’ the least little bit in the 
world.” 

“I hope he said nothing of the sort.” 

“Oh, no !” said Milly blushing up to her eyes, and look- 
ing suddenly shy. “He only said how glad he was we were 
coming and hoped I hadn’t forgotten him, although we had 
not met for so long a time, and all that sort of polite and 
civil thing, you know. And he made me promise him a 
waltz — or two.” 

“Oh, did he?” — Miss Kettlowell turned and surveyed 
Milly from head to foot with a look of new interest. “What 
are you going to wear?” wiis her next question. 

“White, Auntie.” 

“White, of course, what material?” 

“Oh, it’s a soft white silk, not expensive, you know, but 
I think it will look rather nice, made up with chiffon or 
something light and pretty. Chloe has a dress something 
like it already, not quite new, but she looks nice in any- 
thing. Frances is the lucky one!” 

“Eh?” 

“Oh, she’s got a lovely dress — from Paris, I believe, all 
lace and silver embroidery over satin, and the most beauti- 
ful feather fan and real pearls! She looks splendid in it. 


94 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


We made her try it on when we were at Denstone yester- 
day.” 

Miss Kettlewell made an inarticulate exclamation, which 
Milly did not quite understand. 

"‘You don’t think I mind, do you. Aunt Keturah? On 
the contrary, I am very, very glad. I like her to look nice. 
After all, pretty frocks don’t make up for a mother and 
father, do they?” said Milly, with a wise look. 

“She is a pretty creature,” muttered Aunt Keturah to 
herself. But she was not applying the words to Frances, 
as Milly thought. Eather it had occurred to her that Milli- 
cent might possibly marry well, if she were properly dressed, 
and that hitherto the child had never had a decent dress in 
her life. After all, it was not fair that this unknown Fran- 
ces should eclipse ]\Iiss Kettlewell’s young cousins in the 
eyes of the county. It would be better for her to present her 
young relatives with garments which should be a credit to 
the faiijily. 

When the girls were gone, she broached the subject, with 
a sour look, to Miss Wedderburn. 

“I can’t have those Fleming girls making frights of 
themselves,” she said in her brusque way. “If Laurence’s 
ward can be dressed suitably, why not my cousin’s chil- 
dren?” 

“I dare say they will be dressed quite suitably to their po- 
sition,” said Miss Wedderburn.” 

“Hum! An old frock for one, and a two-penny — ^half- 
penny flimsy silk for the other. Goodness knows what they 
will have in the way of gloves and boots. No, I can’t have 
it. I shall dress them myself.” 

Miss Wedderburn’s eyes opened wide at this suggestion. 
“Dr. and Mrs. Fleming are very independent,” she re- 
marked, “I am afraid they will decline your kind offer.” 

“They won’t have the chance. I shall tell them nothing 
about it until the dresses are made, and you will have to 
manage the details, Lavinia. Write and ask the girls to 
dine and sleep here one day this week. When they are in 


MISS KETTLEWELL’S PROJECTS. 


9.-) 


bed, you can get hold of their frocks, and take the measure- 
ments, and we’ll send the order to a woman I know in Lon- 
don. I’m not going to have Chloe and Millicent worse 
dressed than that Frances girl, handsome as she is.” 

“If you dress them in that way, people will begin to say 
that you intend to leave them your money,” said Miss Wed- 
derburn sullenly. 

Miss Kettle well’s bright eyes lighted up with sudden 
mirth, she laughed grimly and silently, until her hooked 
nose and prominent chin seemed almost to meet. “And 
what if I do?” she said, much enjoying the spectacle of Miss 
Wedderburn’s discomfiture. “What if I do? Co-heiresses. 
Not a bad idea of yours, Lavinia, at all. And if they were to 
make good marriages, it would be quite worth while. We’ll 
see how the ball turns out before we decide. Write the 
note, Lavinia, and send to London for patterns of good 
white satin and brocade. We’ll out-do Laurence Corbet 
yet.” 

Much against her will. Miss Wedderburn was obliged to 
perform her employer’s behests. It was she who transacted 
all the business connected with those dresses — business 
which she detested from her heart. If she could have 
made the plot miscarry, if she could have spoilt the beauty 
of the dresses, she would gladly have done so; but she had 
no chance of treachery, for Miss Kettlewell insisted on su- 
perintending every detail of the proceedings, and when the 
dresses were completed, and safely despatched to Dr. Flem- 
ing’s house, with fans and gloves and ornaments all com- 
plete, Miss Keturah Kettlewell chuckled to herself and was 
satisfied. 


96 


A VALUABI.E LIFE. 


CHAPTER XI. 

HER LAST APPEARANCE. 

Dr. Fleming and his wife found considerable difficulty in 
making up their minds to accept Miss Kettlew^ell’s present. 
Although they had always allowed their girls to visit her, 
they had been resolute against receiving favors, and to Mrs. 
Fleming at least, there seemed something of an insult in 
Miss Kettlewell’s obvious conviction that she could not 
dress her daughters properly. But she did not put this 
feeling into words, and her husband, after a little hesita- 
tion, told her that it would be ungracious not to accept a 
gift concerning which the old lady had evidently taken so 
much trouble. It was Chloe who was most difficult to con- 
vince on the subject. She wanted to send the dress back at 
once, and to wear her own old silk. But Milly w^as over- 
joyed. She was too young to understand the reasons of the 
long-standing coolness between her parents and their rela- 
tives and as she said. Aunt Ketarah had lately been much 
more kind to her. “I believe she is really growing fond of 
us, mother,” she said. “She was ever so nice to us the other 
day when we w^ere there, and she was awfully pleased that 
I was going to dance with Lord Heron.” 

The father and the mother exchanged glances. 

“She must have sent to London, or even to Paris, for 
these dresses,” Milly went on in ecstacy. “They are quite 
as beautiful as Frances’s dress, yet not a bit like — ” 

“Did you tell her about Frances’s dress, Milly?” asked 
the mother, quickly. 

“Yes, mother. She always likes to hear about pretty 
dresses, you know, although she wears such old-fashioned 
things herself.” 

“I hope she did not think — anything — ” 


HER LAST APPEARANCE. 


9 ' 


“What could she think?” said Milly innocently, “not that 
I was jealous of Frances’s frocks, mother dear. Indeed, I 
told her I wasn’t. But we may wear these, may we not? 
It is so very, very kind of her.” 

“Wear them and be happy,” said her father smiling; and 
Milly flew off on the wings of the wind to announce the 
decision to Chloe. 

“It is very plain how the idea suggested itself,” remarked 
Mrs. Fleming, somewhat ruefully. 

. ‘'The child could not have done it better if she had been 
broiight up to consult all Keturah Kettlewell’s pet preju- 
dices,” said Dr. Fleming with an air of half-repressed an- 
noyance. “I hope nobody will think us capable of doing 
that. But the description of Frances Corbet’s clothes — ” 

“And the dancing with Lord Heron — ” 

“Ah, yes, it was just the way to provoke Cousin Keturah 
into doing an extravagant thing. I’m afraid the dresses are 
very handsome, are they not, Margaret?” 

“Absurdly so. I don’t like it at all, Tom. If people 
hear that she provided dresses — and certainly we could not 
have afforded anything so beautiful — they will say that she 
means to leave them her money, and that we are paying 
court to her for that purpose.” 

“Never mind what people say, Maggie! We have some- 
thing better to do than to trouble ourselves about gossip. 
And as for money — trust Keturah for that. She has long 
ago vowed that she would not leave us a penny, and I sin- 
cerely hope she won’t.” 

“Ah, Tom, you would have had it all very likely, but for 
me. She used to be so fond of you.” 

“And I would sooner have my own dear wife than all 
the riches in the world,” said the doctor, putting his arm 
round her still slender figure, and kissing the gentle face. 

It must be confessed that Mrs. Fleming felt herself a 
very shabby figure beside her exquisitely dressed daughters 
when they entered the ball-room. Chloe had done her best 
to renovate her mother’s black satin, and to mend the old 
7 


98 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


lace with which it was trimmed; and Mrs. Fleming was too 
graceful not to look well; but for once, her girls’ unusual 
brilliance made her nervous and shy. Miss Kettlewell’s 
idea had been magnificent. N'o girls that night were more 
beautifully dressed than the country doctor’s daughters; 
and even Frances’s stately beauty was scarcely more ad- 
mired than Chloe’s graceful fairness and Milly’s kittenish 
charm. 

Certainly many of the guests made no secret of their ad- 
miration; and it was very obvious that wherever Chloe* 
went, young Mr. Derrick might be found in close atten- 
dance, and that Millicent seemed, in some mysterious man- 
ner, to he always in company with Lord Heron, except when 
he was dancing “duty dances” with partners chosen by his 
mother. 

“I think, dear, you have danced enough with Lord Her- 
on,” Mrs. Fleming murmured into Milly’s ear, before the 
evening Avas over; and Lady Hernesdale said something 
sharp to her husband concerning their son’s partiality for 
that chit of a doctor’s daughter, who was so extraordinarily 
over-dressed. 

“Over-dressed, is she?” said Lord Hernesdale, who was a 
good-natured man with an eyeglass. “Now she looks to 
me remarkably simple and good form — all white and no 
fripperies, you know — ” 

“You men have no idea what those dresses would cost,” 
said his wife. 

“I daresay old Miss Kettlewell provided them,” said the 
Earl, hitting the truth at once, as, in spite of his easy looks, 
he generally did. “And depend on it, that means she is 
going to leave them her money. In that case, my dear. 
Heron would not do badly.” 

“N onsense ! Old Miss Kettlewell is more likely to endow 
a hospital for cats,” said Lady Hernesdale, and perhaps she 
was right. 

Pretty little Milly, with her flushed smiling face and 
sparkling eyes, did not know the excitement that she was 


HER LAST APPEARANCE. 


99 


creating in the breasts of various parents. Hitherto, no- 
body had taken much notice of herself and her sister at the 
very few entertainments at which they had been present. 
Now they were the observed of all observers. Was it be- 
cause of their dress? or was it because of the rumor which 
was flying about the room that Miss Kettlewell had declared 
them her heiresses? All that Milly cared about was the 
knowledge that her old playfellow had not forgotten her, 
that he had danced with her as often as he could, that he 
had said some strange delightful things that she could never 
forget, and that she wished the evening would last forever! 
Charlie was “nicer than ever” she said to herself; he did not 
tease her now and he said that he had often thought of her 
while he was at Oxford. Life under these conditions was 
perfectly beautiful to Milly. 

Chloe’s sense of enjoyment was more troubled than her 
sister’s. She had many partners, but she distinguished 
none of them by particular favor. She was conscious 
throughout the evening of being watched by eyes that were 
gloomy and reproachful, from under brows that were bent 
as in displeasure or pain. And she knew why. She had 
more than half promised a dance to Andrew Derrick, who 
was there because it was one of Lady Hernesdale’s pro- 
miscuous olla podrida dances, and because he had won all 
sorts of honors at Oxford during the preceding year; and 
she had not kept her promise. She did not quite know 
why. Perhaps he had not arrived as early as he ought to 
have done; perhaps she w'as a little shy; at any rate, by the 
time that he reached her, her card was full, and he had re- 
tired without a word, only watching her after^yards with 
those reproachful eyes which made her feel uncomfortable. 

She tried to make things better a little later in the even- 
ing, when her partner had gone to fetch her an ice, and she 
found Andrew at her elbow, looking disconsolate. 

“Are you not dancing?” she asked pleasantly. 

“No. I have no heart for dancing since you would not 
dance with me.” 


100 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“You came so late/’ she said, looking down. 

“Was that the only reason?” 

“The only reason?” she repeated, not understanding his 
words. There was a little bitterness in his tone as he re- 
plied. 

“Surely you know what everyone is saying? That you 
are to inherit your aunt’s great wealth; you and your sister 
are to be co-heiresses? Of course, old friends must be drop- 
ped in that case. I see the necessity.” 

“Mr. Derrick, you have no right to accuse me of a mean- 
ness,” said Chloe, with dignity. “Besides, there is no foun- 
dation for the rumor you have heard.” 

Her partner returned at that moment, and Andrew 
moved away with a bow, but there was a look on his face 
which showed Chloe that she had not made the slightest 
impression upon his mind by way of convincing him of his 
error. 

Frances, beautifully dressed, as Milly Fleming had said, 
was one of the most striking figures of the evening. She 
thought once or twice of the picture which she was said to 
resemble, but she had no time to visit it, for her card was 
full, and moreover she did not like to suggest the expe- 
dition to any of her partners. No doubt, she said to her- 
self, it was all an old woman’s fancy and there was no more 
likeness to Lady Emmeline in her face than in those of a 
dozen other girls who had dark eyes and hair. Once or 
twice she caught the Earl looking at her with a puzzled eye, 
as if he thought that he ought to know her and could not 
quite make out her identity. Frances shrank away from 
him at such moments. What was she, Silas Wedderburn’s 
daughter, that she should think it possible for the Earl of 
Hernesdale to take any notice of her. 

“Are you tired, Frances?” Laurence said once, looking 
at her as midnight grew near. “Are you enjoying your- 
self?” 

“Very much indeed,” she answered brightly. “And is it 
not nice to see dear little Milly? And has she not a pretty 


HER LAST APPEARANCE. 


101 


dress? Old Miss Kettlewell got it for her and for Chloe 
too — I quite love her for that.” 

“And, by all the powers,” ejaculated Laurence, “here is 
Miss Kettlewell herself.” 

There was a little crowd at the door of the ball-room to 
see the rich and eccentric old lady, who had come — un- 
bidden, it was said — to the house which she had once hoped 
to call her own. Her carriage had Just driven up to the 
door, and the Earl himself had been summoned to greet the 
visitor, who, with her shrinking companion upon her arm, 
crossed the hall as if she were mistress of the whole place. 
Her shabby dress had been discarded for a pearl gray satin, 
and a wonderful erection of costly lace and ostrich feather 
waved upon her head; diamonds blazed everywhere, on 
wrists and neck and bodice: her gold-headed stick might 
have been the wand of some fairy god-mother. Smiling 
and bowing right and left, she advanced to meet the Earl, 
to whom she made a prodigious courtesy, quite after the 
fashion of an extinct school. 

“You have often asked me here, my Lord,” she said, her 
cracked shrill voice sounding high over the music and the 
buzz of talk, “and I have never accepted your invitation. 
But to-night I have come, without invitation, to see all once 
more, and to say good-bye.” 

“Mad! Quite mad!” was whispered on every side, and 
the music stopped suddenly, and the dancers came crowd- 
ing into the hall to see what was wrong. Miss Wedder- 
burn’s face was white as death; she wore a scanty black silk 
gown, and carried a cloak on one arm, it was evident that 
she was terribly frightened and knew not what to do or 
what to say. But the Earl was quite equal to the situation. 

“Miss Kettlewell, I am honored by your appearance. 
May I conduct you to Lady Hernesdale?” 

“Certainly, my Lord, certainly. It is a pleasure to me to 
be here once more” — and she laughed in a weird fashion, 
which had no sound of merriment — “and to see my old 
friends. And my young friends too,” she said, nodding and 


102 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


smiling as she caught sight of Chloe and Millicent, who, 
with frightened faces, were very near her, at their mother’s 
side, “my young relations my Lord! Allow me to present 
them to you and to your friends; my heiresses , my lord, the 
ladies of King’s Leigh! Ah, there will be fine junketing at 
King’s Leigh when I am gone.” 

A sensation ran through the assembly. Mad though the 
old lady must be, it was certain that she had named Chloe 
and Milly Fleming as the successors to her house and her 
great wealth. The buzz of talk began again as she moved 
forward, bowing and smiling with the grace of long forgot- 
ten days, upon Lord* Hernesdale’s arm. 

“Oh mother, she is out of her mind! Can’t we get her 
away?” said Milly, in an agonized whisper to her mother. 

“I am afraid it would excite her too much if I spoke to 
her,” said Mrs. Fleming hurriedly. “Where is your father? 
Perhaps he could induce her to go. Ah” — in a tone of relief 
“there is Laurence. He will manage everything. And 
then, Milly, we ourselves must go.” 

“Yes, mother,” said Milly, with a little quiver in her 
voice. “Poor, poor Aunt Keturah! I am so sorry for 
her.” 

“Don’t be frightened,” said a warm young voice at her 
ear. “My father’s got the old lady in tow. What does it 
matter what she says? You needn’t mind.” 

“Oh, Charlie,” said the girl, falling back quite uncon- 
sciously into her old way of naming him, “I am afraid she 
is very ill. She never spoke or looked like that before.” 

“She looks uncommonly jolly,” said Lord Heron.“ What 
splendid diamonds she has got on! Oh, don’t be alarmed 
about her, I’m awfully glad she came.” 

All the more glad in his heart of hearts, because he knew 
that no shadow of opposition to his love-making would 
arise, now that Milly was declared one of the heiresses of 
old Keturah Kettlewell. 

Laurence had gone forward, and entered the Library 
where Miss Kettlewell had been placed in a chair of honor. 


HER LAST APPEARANCE. 


103 


with Lord and Lady Hernesdale doing her homage and pay- 
ing her every attention. Secretly, Lady Hernesdale was 
furious, and her husband perplexed. It was an incident 
which seemed likely to spoil the evening’s entertainment, 
for the rumor that Miss Kettlewell was mad had gone 
abroad and careful mothers were already hurrying their 
daughters to the cloakroom and ordering their carriages. 

The appearance of Laurence seemed to please the old 
lady. She smiled and nodded and waved her fan at him as 
he drew near. Frances had followed drawn by a strange 
fascination until she stood opposite Miss Kettlewell. And 
Miss Kettlewell nodded and beckoned also to her. 

“That’s well,” she said. ‘T was once to have married a 
Hernesdale, as all of you know; but it was not to be. An- 
other generation shall carry out the plans that were then 
begun, and King’s Leigh and Hernesdale, and Heron and 
Corbet shall all be as they were in days of old.” 

The listeners shivered. What was she going to say? 
Lord Heron suddenly flushed scarlet, and Frances, on whom 
her eyes were resting, turned very pale. Miss Kettlewell 
uttered an eldritch laugh. 

“There she is! Lady Emmeline!” she said, pointing to 
Frances, and then to a picture above the mantelpiece. 
“Don’t you see it? isn’t it a good likeness? Emmeline, you 
were always a good friend to me,” she went on, addressing 
Frances, “but how is it that you are so young and beautiful 
still, while I am old and gray?” 

There was a strange pause. Frances stood looking at her 
without a word, and the eyes of the assembly were fixed 
first on her and then on the picture above the mantelpiece, 
which represented a dark-eyed girl in white, with a bouquet 
of white roses in her hand. As it happened, Frances car- 
ried white roses too. 

“What a wonderful likeness!” someone said. 

“But Lady Emmeline died fifty years ago.” 

The words were not meant to be heard, but they came, 
most unfortunately, to Miss Kettlew^ell’s ear. 


104 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Do you say that Emmeline is dead ?” she cried, throwing 
up her hands. “Then it is her ghost I see! Oh, Emme- 
line, my friend! Do you want me? And shall I come?” 

She rose to her feet, made a step or two towards Frances, 
then wavered, tottered, and fell back into her chair. Her 
face was gray; her eyes closed; her hands fell to her side. 
The lonely woman’s day was over her life was ebbing fast. 
They thought it was a corpse that they would have to carry 
to King’s Leigh. 


IN THE WAKING HOURS. 


105 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN THE WAKING HOURS. 

The Hernesdales’ ball, and its unlooked-for termination, 
became, of course, the topics of the day. The extraordi- 
nary appearance of Miss Kettlewell who, as it speedily 
transpired, had never been invited; her remarkable dress, 
her diamonds, her airs and graces, would never be fogotten 
by those who had been present at the scene; and her an- 
nouncement that Chloe and Milly would inherit her great 
fortune gave a touch of interest to the story, such as might 
have been lacking if Miss Kettlewell had been less rich or 
the Flemings less popular. Then, the curious likeness 
which had now been discerned between the dead Lady 
Emmeline and Mr. Corbet’s ward, was a most engrossing 
theme. Even the Earl was startled by it. Frances Cor- 
bet’s face had seemed vaguely familiar to him; but he had 
not connected it with any member of his own family. Now, 
however, the fact was patent; it was common property; 
Miss Corbet was “the exact image” of Lady Emmeline 
Heron, as she had been before her marriage — so people 
said; and poor old Miss Kettlewell had mistaken the girl 
for her friend’s ghost and had thought that she herself was 
summoned to her death by the visitant from another world. 

It was painful enough for Frances at the time, when she 
stood fronting the old lady, with the group of onlookers 
ever pressing nearer, and casting curious glances first at her 
and then at the picture above the mantelpiece; it was ex- 
tremely painful for Laurence, who began to feel that he had 
put the girl into a false position, and that it might be neces- 
sary for him to make known (much against his will) who 
Frances was, and where he had met with her. 

It was painful also to Lord Hernesdale, who while Miss 


106 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Kettlewell was being conveyed to her carriage— for after 
all, she was not dead, but only insensible, came up to Lau- 
rence and touched him on the arm. Frances was cloak- 
ing herself with the Flemings in an ante-room, and 
Laurence waited to see her before he went with Dr. Flem- 
ing to King’s Leigh. The Earl spoke in a subdued voice. 

‘T am very sorry for all this, Corbet, and for your aunt’s 
sudden illness.” 

“I am extremely sorry that we should have been so 
troublesome to you, my lord,” said Laurence, courteously. 

“There is one thing I want to ask — this extraordinary 
likeness of your ward to my Aunt Emmeline; it is quite un- 
mistakable — do you know of any connection — any reason 
why it should be so?” 

“None in the least. I have not the slightest reason to 
suppose that there can be any connection.” 

“It is just a curious coincidence, then. I fear that it had 
a disastrous effect on Miss Kettlewell’s mind.” 

“I am afraid my aunt’s illness has been coming on for 
some time,” said Laurence Corbet. “This delusion about 
Frances has appeared before now. It was nothing new; she 
had a fixed idea that my ward resembled Lady Emmeline.” 

“It is not to be wondered at, the likeness is very remark- 
able.” 

Laurence felt impatient, but he could say no more, for at 
that moment Frances appeared, looking white but perfectly 
composed. He drew her aside and spoke a word in her ear. 

“Frances, I must follow Dr. Fleming to my aunt’s. Do 
you mind going back to Denstone without me? I will fol- 
low as soon as I am free.” 

“Oh, no', I don’t mind do just as you think best,” said 
Frances without looking up. He could see that she had 
been much shaken by the scene. 

“Poor little girl, keep up!” he murmured softly. “Don’t 
let Mrs. Leslie bother you. Get away to bed as soon as you 
can, I dare say I shall be back in good time.” 

The paternal caressing tone had seldom failed to bring a 


IN THE WAKING HOURS. 


107 


smile to Frances's face; but on this occasion, she still looked 
grave. Laurence wondered what was in her mind. He 
pressed her arm gently with his hand as he drew her for- 
ward to make her last farewell and to follow Mrs. Leslie to 
the carriage. He won a faint, answering smile only when 
he said good-bye, and even in the anxiety as to his aunt’s 
condition which now took hold of him, he found himself 
preoccupied by the problem of Frances’s extreme pallor and 
gravity. Could it be that she was in some way angry with 
him? 

Dr. Fleming and Miss Wedderburn had gone with Miss 
Kettlewell to King’s Leigh. Thither Laurence repaired 
with all possible speed; and found the doctor and the com- 
panion engaged in something like wordy warfare, in a sit- 
ting-room leading out of Miss Kettlewell’s room. 

“Who is with her?” said Laurence, breaking in upon the 
conference. 

“A trained nurse from the Rushton infirmary,” said the 
Doctor. “I sent a special message for her at once and I 
think it would be well, Mr. Corbet, if you, as Miss Kettle- 
well’s nearest relation, would represent to Miss Wedder- 
burn that the course we are taking is the usual and desir- 
able one.” 

“What do you mean?” said Laurence, turning to Miss 
Wedderburn with some sharpness. “Any course that Dr. 
Fleming recommends is of course the right one. Have you 
anything to say against it?” 

“I object sir,” said Miss Wedderburn, in a singularly un- 
pleasant voice. “I object. I strongly object.” 

“And to what do you object?” 

“I object to the choice of a nurse. I object to Dr. Flem- 
ing as a doctor. I think another doctor should be called 
in; and I think that a London nurse should be procured, 
and no one who is under Dr. Fleming’s influence.” 

“Do you know what you are saying?” queried Laurence 
sternly. “Do you know that you are making a most extra- 
ordinary insinuation?” 


108 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“The woiiiaivs mad I think,” said Dr. Fleming, in an 
irritated undertone. 

“Na, I am not mad,” said Miss Wedderburn, facing 
round upon him determinedly. “But I am clear-sighted — 
too clear-sighted for you and your family. Dr. Fleming I 
have long noticed the efforts you were making to secure an 
influence over the mind of my dear and esteemed employer; 
and in her present condition, I think it would be well if she 
had those around her who could be trusted, and who were 
unlikely to be influenced by mercenary considerations.” 

“In plain English,” burst out the doctor, who was hot- 
tempered and not given to measuring his words, “this wo- 
man, I^anrence, accuses me of washing to get my poor old 
cousin out of the w'ay, and insinuates that I am ready to 
commit murder for my private ends.” 

“After insulting one of Miss Kettlewell’s relations in this 
way,” said Laurence, looking steadily at Miss Wedderburn, 
“you do not expect I suppose, to remain in Miss KettlewelFs 
house? I will write you a check at once for anything that 
may be owing to you.” 

“Excuse me, sir,” said Miss Wedderburn, drawing herself 
up wdth lofty disdain, “but I shall wait for my employer’s 
dismissal — or death — before I go. I am sure that she 
would wish me to remain near her, and therefore, unless 
she herself dismisses me, I shall stay.” 

Dr. Fleming and Laurence exchanged significant glances. 
They knew that she w’as within her right. They could not 
turn her out of King’s Leigh as long as she w^as in Miss 
Kettlew^ell’s employ, and Miss Kettlewell w^as still living. 
They had no power to bid her go, if she preferred to stay. 
But one thing they could do, and they did it. Dr. Flem- 
ing, after formally asking Laurence’s permission, gave or- 
ders that Miss Wedderburn was not to be admitted to Miss 
Kettlewell’s room; and also suggested that a London doctor 
and a London nurse should be telegraphed for at once. 

“Send for Birkett,” said Laurence, naming a famous Lon- 
don specialist, “and consult with him if you like, but of 


IN THE WAKING HOURS. 


109 


course, we have perfect confideuce iu your treatment. Dr. 
Fleming. I think it would be as well. Miss Wedderburn, if 
you were to retire to your own room. You are scarcely 
needed here; and possibly you may require some rest.” 

He maintained a manner of perfect politeness, but there 
was something in his face which made Lavinia Wedderburn 
afraid of him. She hesitated, tried to protest, then yielded 
to the grim command of his eyes, and reluctantly left the 
room. 

But before the door closed, she turned and uttered a 
menacing word. 

“You may be sorry for this some day,” she said. Then 
she was gone. 

“What on earth does she mean?” said Corbet in a vexed 
tone. “Is she off her head? Never mind her, Fleming; 
she is annoyed that the money does not seem to be coming 
her way, that’s the long and the short of it.” 

“She puts me into a very awkward position,” said the 
doctor. “Of course I see that it is spite— ^the spite of disap- 
pointment because of what that poor demented old woman 
said about my girls, but I assure you, Laurence, that I had 
rather they were poor all their lives than that we were ac- 
cused of scheming and plotting for the sake of Keturah 
Kettlewell’s money. ' By jove, if she has left it to the girls, 
I shall feel inclined to advise them to have nothing to do 
with it.” 

“You couldn’t do that very well, I think,” said Laurence. 
“Besides, the most dignified thing is to despise the evil 
thoughts of evil minds, and act as you think right. You 
have attended Aunt Keturah for years, and you must not 
leave her now — just because of that woman’s spiteful 
speeches.” 

“I will come if you desire it,” said Dr. Fleming rather 
stiffly, “but I will ask you to call in Dr. Spencer as well as 
myself, and we will meet Sir Jabez in consultation.” 

“Don’t take it to heart, old uian. Nobody that knows 
you could suspect you of a meanness” said Laurence af- 


110 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


fectionately, and the two men exchanged a warm grasp of 
the hand before dropping the subject, as if by mutual con- 
sent. 

^‘IIow was it that the poor old lady took it into her head 
to go out to-night?” Corbet asked a little later, of the old 
housekeeper who came to meet him with a troubled face. 

“Well, sir, I suppose it was with hearing Miss Milly talk 
about it, and then the getting of the dresses from London 
and so on she grew excited over it, and begun to talk of the 
old days at Heronsdale, you know — almost wandering like; 
and then, sir, I don’t like to make mischief but that Miss 
Wedderburn, sir — ” 

“Well?” said Laurence, as the woman paused. 

“She seemed to me to be exciting my mistress, sir, mak- 
ing her talk of the old days on purpose, and saying ‘Why 
don’t you go to Heronsdale? Why don’t you go to-night?’ 
I heard her, sir; until my mistress flew into a sort of wild 
state and said ‘Yes I will,’ and ordered the carriage and 
made me help to -get out her diamonds, until I thought 
she had gone clean, stark, staring mad!” 

“You ought to have stopped her, Mrs. Green,” Laurence 
said. 

“What could I do, sir? My mistress isn’t an easy one to 
stop when she has set her heart on doing a thing; and Miss 
Wedderburn kept on encouraging of her, though I think she 
was frightened at last and wanted to undo what she had 
done. But it is Miss Wedderburn you must blame, sir, 
not me.” 

“What was her object, I wonder?” Laurence mused to 
himself, as he stretched himself on the couch provided for 
him at King’s Leigh, where Dr. Fleming also stayed the 
night. “Is it that my poor old aunt has made a will lately 
which Miss Wedderburn hopes to set aside on the score of 
insanity? It looks as though that might be it. A dan- 
gerous woman. A dangerous relation for Frances, if her 
true parentage becomes known.” 

He could not sleep, and his thoughts turned again to 


IN THE WAKING HOURS. 


Ill 


Frances and to the pallor and gravity of her face when she 
had said good-night. What was it that she had been think- 
ing of? Was she simply nervous and “upset,” as women 
say, by the exceeding painfulness of the whole scene? Or 
was it that some perception had come to her of the strange- 
ness and difficulty of her position, and was she thinking of 
some way of escape? 

Laurence hoped not. lie had tried so hard to make her 
happy; and yet, if she were not happy, what was he to do? 
He recalled the days when she had been but a child, when 
he had gradually won her affection, and taken a delight in 
showing her what was interesting and beautiful in the 
world. He remembered the happy days he had spent with 
her in different Continental cities, in Switzerland, in Italy, 
on the Khine, before she became old enough to require 
more of a chaperon than himself and a governess. She had 
seemed contented enough, then. Truly of late a spirit of 
dissatisfaction had entered into her, and made her show 
some fatigue of their constant wanderings; and then it had 
been that Laurence had decided to bring her home to Den- 
stone, and introduce her to the County as his ward. 

It would have been easy to do, he fancied, but for Miss 
Keturah Kettlewell and the Wedderburns. Who would 
have imagined that Silas Wedderburn and his cousin could 
have found their way to Kushton and King’s Leigh? The 
meeting with her father had revived the girl’s saddest 
memories. Then Miss Kettlewell had disturbed her mind 
by connecting her with the Heron family, as if Frances 
could possibly have any connection with the Heron family, 
Laurence said peevishly to himself. 

But Miss Kettlewell’s appearance at the ball and the wild 
words she had used, would certainly set people talking. 
There would be a general chorus of “Who is she?” And 
unless Laurence Corbet and Frances were prepared boldly 
to acknowledge that she was the daughter of Silas W^edder- 
burn, there would be no end of gossip, no end of tiresome 
queries no end of doubt and speculation and false report. 


112 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Laurence winced at the thought of things that might be 
said. 

And supposing that she were known as Silas Wedder- 
burn’s daughter, what then? 

Why, then— Laurence could not help acknowledging it 
to himself — there would probably be a storm of indigna- 
tion amongst the County families, to whom he had intro- 
duced her as his ward. They would say that he had de- 
ceived them, that he had brought into their midst a Dissent- 
ing minister’s daughter, of low birth, of humble origin, 
whom none of them wanted to know. They would promptly 
turn the cold shoulder to Frances — and to himself, but for 
himself that would not matter. For Frances, it would be a 
painful and humiliating affair. He had never allowed any- 
one to look down on her, but here he could have no chance 
of protecting her, she would be^ patronized or coldly shun- 
ned, and he did not think that Frances would brook either 
patronage or coldness very easily. 

Perhaps he exaggerated the dangers and difficulties of 
her position. At any rate, it seemed to him that he had put 
Frances into a very embarrassing situation and that it was 
his duty to get her out of it. Should he propose to her to 
go abroad again? Or — should he ask her to become his 
wife, and be Frances Corbet in reality, and no longer Fran- 
ces Wedderburn? 

His blood ran faster in his veins, his heart began to beat 
madly, as he thought of this possibility. His wife? Frances 
as his wife? Well, why not? And the tumult subsided a 
little as he thought of the extreme suitability of such an ar- 
rangement. It seemed to him as though this had been 
what he had intended all along, although he had not been 
conscious of seriously thinking of it until this moment. 

When should he ask her? Would it be decent to ask her 
while his aunt was upon her death-bed? He thought it 
would — if, as Dr. Fleming had said. Miss Kettlewell was 
likely to live some days. It would be a complete answer to 
any questions asked of him or of her. The wedding could 


IN THE WAKING HOURS. 


113 


take place very shortly, no one would expect him to mourn 
very long for his old aunt. And then they could do as they 
chose about recognizing Silas Wedderburn, it would not 
matter though all the world knew whose daughter she was, 
if she was also Laurence Corbet’s wife: he was perfectly sat- 
isfied with the wisdom of his decision, and he resolved that 
as soon as he could be spared in the morning and if Miss 
Kettlewell were no worse, he would walk over to Denstone 
in the morning and settle matters with Frances without fur- 
ther delay. 

It was strange that he never asked himself whether Fran- 
ces would accept him or not. He took it as a matter of 
course that she should. 


114 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 

The autumn morning was crisp and fresh with a touch of 
frost in the air, as Laurence walked from King’s Leigh to 
Denstone on the day after the Hernesdale ball. He had 
heard from Dr. Fleming that no change in Miss Kettle- 
well’s condition could as yet be expected, and that it was 
not at all necessary that her nephew should remain at hand. 
He could be summoned at any time, for the distance be- 
tween King’s Leigh and Denstone was not more than five or 
six miles; and he left stringent orders that he should be 
sent for should any change occur. ‘‘There may be a last 
rally before death,” Dr. Fleming had said to him, “but it 
will be only the flicker of a flame in the socket.” 

The London nurses would arrive in the afternoon, and 
Sir Jabez by the evening train; Laurence intended to be at 
King’s Leigh again before that time. In the meantime the 
nurse from Rushton ruled the sick-room and was assisted by 
Chloe Fleming, who, as everyone knew, was excellent in a 
sick-room. Mrs. Fleming and Milly came to the house for 
part of the day, to be there in case of need; but they were 
not permitted to enter Miss Kettlewell’s room. The old 
lady lay silent and motionless, but nobody could be quite 
certain of how much she saw and understood; therefore, as 
she had a fierce animosity to Mrs. Fleming, and as Milly 
shrank a little from seeing anyone who was so near death 
(“unless,” as she said “she could do anything to help”) the 
mother and daughter remained downstairs. 

Miss Wedderburn was invisible. She had locked herself 
into her own room and rigidly refused to leave it. She 
asked for food to be sent up to her, and Mrs. Green herself 
brought her meals to the door — ^not allowing any of the 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


115 


maids to go near her lest they should be questioned or 
bribed to do the companion’s bidding. Both Laurence and 
Dr. Fleming would have been glad to get her out of the 
house; but she positively refused to go, and they could not 
turn her out by force. 

After the excitement and agitation of the night, Lau- 
rence was glad tO’ find himself in the fresh air, and on the 
high road to Denstone. His mind was full of the decision 
at which he had arrived; and the more he thought of it, the 
more he was pleased by its appropriateness to the situation. 
Frances was the ideal wife for him; she knew his tastes, 
sympathized with his pursuits, was fond of him already. 
Denstone wanted a mistress; and he should be proud of the 
mistress whom he was about to give it. And Frances would 
of course not say him nay. 

It was not long since he had said to himself when con- 
templating the possibility of this marriage, that it would 
not be fair to ask Frances to marry him until she had seen 
a little more of English society. He now realized that it 
was more difficult than he had anticipated to launch an un- 
known and friendless girl upon County society, and expect 
the world to be at her feet. His simple statement that she 
was his ward was not sufficient. It remained to be seen 
whether her elevation to the rank of his wife would or 
would not make a difference. Laurence thought that it 
would. 

There was no white figure to greet him as he came within 
sight of the garden, no one to hail him gleefully and show 
him the blossoms gathered for the dinner-table, or bring 
him the letters and papers that had arrived by the morn- 
ing’s post. He supposed that Frances was still resting after 
the fatigues of the previous night. But when he looked 
into the dining-room and surprised Mrs. Leslie at a very 
late breakfast, she told him that Frances had been down for 
some time, and had gone into the library. Thither he at 
once proceeded, saying to himself that there was no use in 
delay. Yet he was surprised to find his heart beating fast 


116 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


and his hand was not quite steady as he turned the handle 
of the door. Yet why should he be nervous — why should 
he fear to meet the eyes of a girl, of a mere child like Fran- 
ces Wedderburn. 

She looked up when he came in, as if she had expected 
him. She was standing on the hearthrug before the fire, 
with one foot on the fender as if she were feeling cold. She 
looked cold, Laurence noticed ; she was pale with dark shad- 
ows under her eyes and her complexion a little clouded; 
there was a sort of eclipse upon her beauty, as though she 
stood in a shadow of grief and pain. Laurence was half- 
startled, half-vexed by it; his associations with Frances 
were chiefly those of Joy and health and successful enter- 
prise. The thought suddenly flashed across his mind that 
it was the first time that he had seen her look like Silas 
Wedderburn. 

“Well, Frances?” he said, stepping forward. He meant 
to kiss her lightly on the forehead, as he had done, in qual- 
ity of her guardian, every night and morning that she had 
been in his company since she was a child; but o-n this occa- 
sion he refrained — perhaps because he thought the salute 
would not be in keeping with the words he had come to ut- 
ter, perhaps because she turned her head aside. “How are 
you this morning?” 

“Quite well, thank you.” The answer had a mechanical 
ring. “And how is Miss Kettlewell, please?” 

He gave her a rapid summary of the doctor’s opinion, 
and of all that had taken place since he last saw her — not 
even sparing her the story of Miss Wedderburn’s behavior, 
although he perceived that it made her wince. But when 
he had finished, she did not say a word. 

“You would have to hear all this sooner or later, you 
know,” he said, thinking she was wounded. “The Flem- 
ings would be sure to tell you if I did net.” 

“Yes, it is better to be prepared,” said Frances quietly. 
“Of course, the actions of one’s relations always reflect to 
some extent on oneself.” 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


117 


‘‘Not in this case, because nobody knows that she is your 
relation.” 

“I am beginning to think that people had better know.” 

“Frank by name and frank by nature — I know you are 
that; but there is a limit to frankness, it must be guided by 
reason not by the impulse of the moment,” said Laurence, 
settling himself with his back to the mantelpiece, and smil- 
ing down at her as at a child. He was surprised to see that 
she turned away quickly, and sat down in the easy-chair by 
the side of the hearth. He said to himself that he had 
never before seen Frances show a trace of sulkiness. And 
yet, at that moment, it looked — almost — as though she 
sulked. 

“It would do you no good, my dear girl, and it would 
complicate matters very much, for me and for all of us, if 
you suddenly revealed your relationship to the Wedder- 
burns. Especially at this moment, when Miss Wedderburn 
has been acting — well, let us say, with a trifle more zeal 
than discretion” — and Mr. Corbet’s handsome face lent 
itself to the semblance of a sneer. “The Flemings are now 
very friendly with you; but if one who was known to be 
your cousin accused them of obtaining my Aunt Keturah’s 
money by undue influence and even of not attending to her 
properly in her last illness — which means murder — ” 

“Oh, don’t, please don’t,” cried Frances suddenly but in 
a very much subdued and stifled voice. “I don’t know how 
to bear it — ” 

“Why, Frances, my dear child,” said Laurence, with an 
accent of real concern, “you are troubling yourself unneces- 
sarily, “What is there for you to care about in Miss Wed- 
derburn’s doings?” 

“She is — my father’s cousin, I suppose,” said the girl. 

“But — such a father!” came from Laurence, almost in- 
voluntarily. He spoke below his breath, but Frances 
heard what he said, and he was at once sorry that he had 
said it. 

“Yes, such a father,” she repeated, raising her head. 


118 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“That is just the worst of it. He abandoned me, he was cow- 
ardly as you have often said, and I gave him up; but the 
older I grow, the less it seems right to me that I should give 
him up in this way. The more you make me ashamed of him, 
the more you say against my cousin Lavinia Wedderbum, 
the more I feel that I ought to cast in my lot with theirs, 
and take what would follow, patiently.” 

“What would follow? WTiat do you mean, Frances?” 

“Do you suppose,” said the girl, with new warmth on her 
cheek and new light in her eyes, “that Lady Hemesdale 
would have asked me to her ball last night if she had known 
me only as the daughter of Silas Wedderbum? Do 
you think that the Flemings would have been as 
kind and good to me as they have, if they had known 
that I was Lavinia W’'edderburn’s cousin? I am obtaining 
kindness and friendship by false pretenses, and I do not like 
it: indeed I don’t think I can bear it any longer. I would 
rather be known as — what I am.” 

“You are not wise,” said Laurence, in a hesitating way. 
“You see, Frances, it is not as though we were concealing 
anything wrong: in fact, there are some persons who would 
consider your history and — and origin, a very creditable 
one. It is not in order to gain social esteem that you ceased 
to call yourself Frances Wedderbum; it was because we both 
felt that your father was unworthy of you and that it would 
be a constant pain and grief to you to live in his house 
again. Y ou would never be able to forget the day on which 
he acted on the belief that his life was so valuable that he 
could sacrifice that of his own child to preserve it.” 

There was the ring of illimitable scorn, which Frances 
had so often heard in the man’s low voice. 

“It would be painful, no doubt,” she answered; “and I 
should not go so far as to wish to live in his house; but I 
think that the world slmuld know that I am Mr. Wedder- 
burn’s daughter.” 

“Let them know, then,” said Laurence eagerly, ‘daut let 
them know at the same time that you will never bear it.” 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


119 


‘‘I could not do that. If I acknowledge the relationship, 
I should bear his name.^’ 

“Not if you married — ” 

“It is possible,” said Frances rather drearily, “that no 
man of any worth would wish to marry me knowing the 
truth — and under the circumstances.” 

“Don’t you think me a man of worth, Frank?” 

“You! But you are different — you are my guardian — ” 

“I would rather be a great deal more than that,” said 
Laurence, the agitation that he had previously felt making 
itself somewhat evident in his voice and manner. “The 
best and easiest way of managing the matter would be — 
if you would consent to be — my wife.” 

*He found himself incapable of expressing himself less 
awkwardly. He watched her face, and a change in it — a 
change that seemed to show she had received a shock. 

“Laurence,” she said, “Mr. Corbet! — I did not expect this 
from you.” 

“Why not?” asked Laurence boldly. “Don’t you see that 
this is the best way out of all our difficulties? As my wife, 
you would have nothing to fear from evil tongues; we could 
get your father out of the way, so that nobody would re- 
member him even if it were known that he — ” 

“You forget,” she said, with effort, “that no one supposes 
my father to be a bad man. I myself think him — a — a 
good man. Not every good man is physically brave. There 
is nothing against him in the eyes of the world.” 

“That is true; but there is a sort of — social difference, 
for all that,” said Laurence, who was losing his temper and 
his head at the same time. And Frances’s face flashed into 
sudden wrath as she replied. 

“Do you think it is for you to tell me that?” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I did not mean that it altered 
my views. But I thought you yourself had felt difficulties, 
and that in this manner we could solve them — ” 

‘T never thought of marriage simply as a way of solving 
difficulties,” said Frances, biting her lips. Her tone was 


120 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


icily cold; her eyes were loftily averted, but there was a look 
of repressed suffering in her face which cut Laurence to the 
heart. He took his arm down from the mantelpiece, and 
came nearer to her chair. 

“Frances, my dear,” he said, “little Frances — don’t look 
like that! I did not mean to hurt you. I was trying to 
think of what was best — that was all.” 

She tried to answer in the old proud way, then a convul- 
sive sob cut short her attempt at speech, and shook her from 
head to foot. She covered her face with her hands and 
burst into tears — not soft, gentle tears, such as Laurence 
had fancied that women shed, but intO' strong, passionate 
weeping which revealed the depths of her bitterness, the 
infinite aching of her heart. Laurence breathed a word 
nwv and then, feeling himself profoundly guilty and miser- 
able; but he dared not touch her, dared not kiss her as he 
would have done a few weeks earlier, when she was in 
trouble; he could only wait and listen and wish that he had 
never said a word. It was unspeakably painful to him to 
see Frances cry like this; and each sob rent his heart. 

She grew quieter at last, and found him walking about 
the room with quick restless movements, as if bent upon 
hearing and seeing as little of her grief as possible. She 
tried to control her tears, but she had words to say and she 
felt that she must say them, whether they brought back 
those terrible sobs or not. Poor Frances was not at all ac- 
customed to shedding tears; and her own emotion was 
rather dreadful to her. Laurence stood still, amazed to 
hear himself attacked. 

“How could you think of such a thing?” said the girl 
passionately. “Did you think I was a child still, or a chat- 
tel, a doll, to be played with and disposed of and arranged 
for in that way? Did you think I should give myself to 
— to — anyone, just because it was convenient under the cir- 
cumstances? That it would get us out of an awkward pre- 
dicament, and make things smooth and easy again? Did 
you think I would marry on those terms?” 


AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 


121 


“I thought it would be better — for you/’ said Laurence, 
distressfully. 

“Better for me! Oh, Laurence, I thought you held me 
higher than that. You forget that even if I am only Silas 
Wedderburn’s daughter, I am a woman, and 1 need — 1 
need — ” 

Her voice failed her; the sobs rose again in her throat. 

“Yes, Frances; you need — what?” 

She choked down the tears. She must say now what she 
had begun to say. She must make him understand, 

“Every woman needs love. I could not marry without — 
love. To ask a woman to marry you for any other motive, 
Laurence, it is base, wicked, unworthy of you! And it is 
an insult to the woman, too. Oh, Laurence, I did not ex- 
pect it from you. I thought I could have trusted you.” 

“Good heavens, Frances, don’t you see that it is only my 
— my — affection for you that prompted me to ask you to be 
my wife?” said Laurence hoarsely. “I could not have 
asked you if I had not loved you — ” 

“As a child! As a girl whom you have brought up and 
educated and been kind to! Ah, yes, I liked that kind of 
love! I am grateful for it; I — 1 hope — I return it! But 
you have spoilt it all now.” 

“Forget it then,” said Laurence, abruptly. He came 
and stood before her, looking down at the ruffled bronze 
head with a strangely tender expression in his eyes. “Xever 
think of it again. I did not mean to hurt you. Forgive 
and forget, Frances; we will never allude to it again.” 

She put her hand into his, at once. But there was a 
curious resoluteness in her voice. 

“Forgive ? Oh, yes, I forgive — you meant it as kindness, 
and you did not know what you were doing. Laurence, 
I can’t bear to think that you do not understand better — 
that you do not see how terrible it is to ask a woman whom 
you do not love to marry you. I wish — I wish — you would 
promise me not to do so’ again — for any reason, or any wo- 
man in the world.” 


122 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“I will gladly promise/’ he said, in a low tone. “Never 
again, Frances — until I ask the woman that I love. And 
then, I promise you, she will make no mistake as to whether 
I love her or not.” 

She did not quite understand the inflection of his voice. 
But she rose up, holding out her hands. 

“Forgive me too, Laurence, I scarcely know what I have 
said. But I did not mean to hurt you — or to cry! We will 
arrange our difficulties in some other way.” 

“Some other way,” assented Laurence, languidly. He 
felt as though he were exhausted by some great effort, some 
great emotion. He did not know exactly what was the 
matter with him. But he fancied, as he sat on in the 
library, when his ward had crept away, that his stupefaction 
was caused partly from the discovery that Frances was a 
woman, not a child. 

And also, that, being a woman, he loved her. And he 
had done the very thing that would tend to alienate and 
disgust her; he had asked her to marry him without saying 
a word of love. 


CHLOE’S SECRET. 


123 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CHLOE’S SECRET. 

The great Sir Jabez came, and endorsed all that had been 
done by Dr. Fleming and Dr. Spencer; the grand London 
nurses took possession of Miss KettlewelFs bed-room and 
banished even the infirmary nurse, as well as Mrs. Green; 
Miss Wedderburn was also excluded, but Chloe Fleming 
was allowed to come and go as she pleased, for her presence 
seemed to soothe the patient, although she still lay appar- 
ently unconscious on her bed. And there was a sort of sat- 
isfaction in Chloe’s heart at being thus admitted, and in 
ministering to Miss KettlewelFs comforts in any little way 
that lay at hand; for she was a sweet-natured girl, and all 
Aunt Keturah’s sharpness to her in the days of her child- 
hood was forgotten in the memory of later years, when she 
had been undoubtedly kind. And as Chloe came so often, 
Milly too grew into the habit of creeping into the sick-room, 
and standing for a little while beside the motionless white 
figure with the sunken, wrinkled features, and the half- 
closed eyes. At first, Milly shuddered, for the face and 
form upon the bed were very deathly in appearance; but af- 
ter a time she grew bolder, and did not mind even being left 
alone with Miss Keturah while the nurses were having their 
daily walk, or Chloe had gone down to see a visitor. 

There was a slight movement of the tired eyelids, a faint 
motion of the hands, when Millicent or Chloe, spoke, which 
encouraged Dr. Fleming to think that the old lady was more 
conscious than she seemed of what went on around her; 
and he cautioned everyone who came into the sick-room to 
be very cautious as to what they said or did in Miss Kettle- 
welFs presence. ‘Tt is my belief that she sees and hears far 
more than you might imagine,” he declared. 


124 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Possibly he was right. Possibly Miss Kettlewell was 
quite aware that the two paceful girls were sorry for her 
and did not grudge the time they spent in her darkened 
room. Perhaps she knew that of her two professional 
nurses, one was conscientious and hard-working, and the 
other careless and insincere. Perhaps she disliked to be 
left alone with the careless nurse at night, and wondered 
where her faithful Lavinia had gone— who knows? In the 
long silent hours, she lay still, moving only a linger or an 
eyelid from time to time, incapable of signifying her wishes, 
of manifesting her likes or dislikes. Even the low moaning 
noise which at first she had made when Mrs. Fleming had 
approached her had died away; she lay as silent now as in 
that long last sleep which she was nearing every day. 

Chloe had a vague suspicion that the nurse who took the 
night-work was not quite as careful or as Avakeful as she 
ought to be. She judged from trifles only and did not like 
to speak to her father on the subject; but she resolved to 
take certain steps by which she hoped to ascertain whether 
Nurse Ellen were trustworthy or not. It was foreign to her 
nature to do anything that seemed underhand; yet to do 
openly what she meant to do wmuld be to defeat her own 
ends. So she resorted to innocent stratagem. 

Miss Kettlewell’s bed-room was a very spacious one, and 
entered from a dressing-room, Avhich led into a corridor. 
On that side of the bed-room opposite the dressing-room 
door, stood a massive hanging cupboard which extended al- 
most to the fireplace. Very few people knew that inside 
this closet or hanging cupboard, there was a door opening 
into a sitting-room, from which by another door and a nar- 
row flight of stairs, the upper rooms of the house could be 
reached. 

There was no secret about this door, and all the regular 
occupants of King’s Leigh were well aware of it. It was 
probable, however, that the nurses had not been told of its 
existence, for it was half hidden by the cloaks and dresses 
that hung upon the walls. Miss Kettlewell usually kept 


CHLOE’S SECRET. 


125 


the door of the wardrobe locked, but during her illness it 
was often left half open, as the nurses found it a convenient 
place in which to hang a cloak or dressing gown which they 
wanted at night. 

Mrs. Fleming and Milly returned home one evening with- 
out Chloe, who usually accompanied them. They accounted 
for her absence by saying that she had said she should like 
to sleep at King’s Leigh that night, and they were a little 
surprised to see that Dr. Fleming looked a trifle startled by 
the announcement. “Does Chloe think her worse?” he 
asked. 

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” his wife answered. “It is only 
a fancy of hers.” 

“My dear, Chloe is not the girl to take fancies without 
good reason into her head.” 

“If Miss Kettle well were worse, would not Kurse Ellen 
have spoken to me and sent you a message?” 

“Possibly,” said the doctor, with a thoughtful look. “But 
I don’t know that Kurse Ellen is very observant. And 
Chloe — it’s a curious thing, but Chloe has a distinct gift of 
diagnosis. I have noticed it very often, I am afraid she 
thinks the old lady not so well to-night.” 

“If it were not so late — ” his wife began. Dr. Fleming 
looked at the clock. He had just come in from a long coun- 
try round, and it was after ten. He was tired and hungry, 
and the supper had just been placed upon the table. He 
cast a wistful glance at it, and then at the clock. 

“I’ll take a mouthful or two,” he said, compromising the 
matter. “And then I’ll stroll over to King’s Leigh, it’s 
not much of a walk. I should like to see Keturah again to- 
night. You may depend upon it, Margaret, Chloe has not 
stayed for nothing.” 

“But everybody will be in bed, if you go so late,” ob- 
jected Mrs. Fleming. 

“Not old John. I’ve often had a chat with old John at 
eleven o’clock at night. He prowls round the house every 
night in order to see that there are no burglars about the 


126 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


place. I shall go and look up old John, and if I think fit, 
Fll walk up and have a look at poor old Keturah. I don’t 
feel easy about her; if Chloe thought her worse, you may be 
sure there is something in it.” 

“I hope you will put as much faith in me when I am a 
doctor^ as you do in Chloe now,” said Milly, nodding at 
him. 

“You a doctor, you madcap!” said her father, looking up 
with twinkling eyes. “I- think I see you at it. No, no, 
your fate won’t be that of a doctor, my child.” 

“More likely, that of a Countess,” was in the mind of 
father and mother alike; they had noticed Lord Heron’s at- 
tentions to Milly, and they knew that the Earl was poor. 
If Milly and Chloe were to be Miss Kettlewell’s co-heiresses, 
there was nO' saying what might not happen. 

“I should like to be a doctor of all things,” said Milly 
with a pout. “And you are the second person to-day who 
has said that I should not be one!” 

“Who was the first?” asked the father, vigorously attack- 
ing the hashed mutton. 

“Oh, only Charlie. He told me — ” 

“Charlie, eh? Charlie, who?” 

“Dear Milly, you must call him Lord Heron,” said her 
mother reproachfully. 

“Mother dear, I can’t! I always forget. I told him so to- 
day, and I’m sure he doesn’t mind. He said he hoped I 
would call him Charlie to the very end of his life! So 
there!” said Milly triumphantly. 

“And he says you are not to be a doctor?” said her father, 
although Mrs. Fleming looked daggers at him for asking 
the question. 

“He says that if I do he shall become a medical student 
too, so as to look after me and see that I come to no harm,” 
said Milly with a merry laugh. “What nonsense boys talk, 
do they not, father?” 

“I daresay,” said the doctor. “I suppose I talked non- 


CHLOE’S SECRET. 


127 


sense in my time too. It’s no good taking it in sober earn- 
est, Milly.” 

“Oh, I know that,” said his daughter, and a very little 
flush of rose-color stole into her pretty cheeks. “I never 
believe anything Charlie — I mean Lord Heron — says. By 
the bye, father” — rather hastily changing the subject — “if 
you go to King’s Leigh to-night don’t yon say anything 
about Chloe being there, if you can help it. It’s a plot be- 
tween her and Mrs. Green. Nobody else knows.” 

“Milly! are you sure of that?” said her mother. 

“Perfectly sure. She’s got some idea about somebody — 
and she wants to see for herself whether it’s true. But I 
wasn’t to say a word about it, for Chloe doesn’t like a fuss.” 

Dr. Fleming pushed away his plate. “What do you 
mean, child? Tell me at once.” 

His voice sounded so stern that Milly looked up amazed. 
“It’s nothing wrong, father,” she said remonstratingly. 

“It may not be wrong, but it may be very necessary for 
me to know,” he said. “Tell me what it is without delay.” 

“Well, Chloe will be very angry with me,” said Milly, who 
had not the slightest fear of her father. “But I’ll tell you, 
of course, if you really think you ought to know. Chloe 
doesn’t think that Nurse Ellen keeps awake during the 
night; so she means to come into the dressing-room at 
twelve or one o’clock, that she may see whether everything 
is right or not; whether Nurse Ellen is on the watch, or 
whether she is comfortably slumbering in that big arm 
chair before the Are.” 

“And that is all?” said Dr. Fleming. 

“Yes, that’s all. The only ditficulty will be if the dress- 
ing-room door is shut, because it opens with such a dreadful 
creak. If it is, Chloe thought of going round by way of the 
wardrobe door, you know.” 

“I know. But Chloe ought to have told me as soon as 
she had any suspicion of the nurse.” 

“She said she did not like to say anything unless she was 
certain. It was Nurse Ellen talking so much about her 


128 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


wakeful nights, and yet not caring to lie down in the day- 
time that made Chloe suspicious. She noticed, too, that 
Cousin Keturah’s medicine had not always been given dur- 
ing the night; and she saw the nurse pour away quite half a 
bottle of it.” 

Dr. Fleming groaned. “I wouldn’t have believed it,” 
he said. ‘‘\Yliy, I had the most excellent references * * 

Chloe ought to have told me at once * * * i jiad bet- 

go to King’s Leigh myself, and see whether I can take the 
nurse by surprise. Keturah ought to be most carefully 
watched.” 

He was on his feet by this time, and comparing his watch 
with the clock. “Only half past ten, by the right time,” he 
said, “and old John won’t be in bed for an hour or more. 
I shall go at once, and shall probably spend the rest of the 
night there. Don’t wait up for me.” 

“Don’t spoil Chloe’s plans,” said Milly with the imperti- 
nence of a much indulged younger daughter. “If you go 
walking straight upstairs with those heavy boots of yours, 
father, you’ll waken everybody in the house, including the 
sinner herself — ” 

“I shall be careful,” said Dr. Fleming impatiently. “I 
shall see for myself, that is all. It was foolish of Chloe not 
to consult me.” 

He said good-night to his wife and daughter, and went 
out abruptly. Milly looked after him with a rueful air. 
“Do you think he’ll be careful?” she asked her mother anx- 
iously. And Mrs. Fleming answered with a laugh. 

“Surely your father knows how to manage his own cases 
Milly.” 

“Yes, but I’m not sure that he won’t spoil Chloe’s little 
plot,” said the irrepressible Milly. “And I don’t like Nurse 
Ellen; she’s a hypocrite; and I believe she has made friends 
with that horrid Miss Wedderburn.” 

“Milly, you ought to have told your father that,” said 
Mrs. Fleming with a start. 

“Now, mother, what’s the good of telling father and put- 


CHLOE’S SECRET. 


129 


ting him into a fume, all about such a trifle as that? It was 
only that I saw Miss Wedderburn talking to Nurse Ellen in 
the corridor. And I thought it such a remarkable sight 
that I stood still and stared, and then they saw me and sep- 
arated in a great hurry, and Nurse Ellen said in an apolo- 
getic kind of way, ‘Miss Wedderburn wanted to ^ow 
.how Miss Kettlewell was to-day.’ But I knew better than 
that; they had got their heads very close together, they 
were colloquing over something or other — now, mother, 
what is the matter? you have turned quite pale.” 

“Nothing is the matter, dear, said Mrs. Fleming, trying 
to recover herself. “Except that I am always a little afraid 
of what Miss Wedderburn may say or do next. She is a 
very designing woman, and a very malignant one. I wish 
she were out of the house — I’m afraid she will do mischief 
if she stays.” 

Milly’s eyes grew large and round. “You don’t think 
mother, that she will try to do any harm to Cousin Keturah 
— to poison her, perhaps, or anything?” 

“Silly child, of course I do not. I only think that she 
may make mischief by saying unkind and disagreeable 
things. So let us go quietly to bed and not think of her 
any more. On the whole, I am glad your father has gone 
to King’s Leigh to-night.” 

Dr. Fleming, however, was not in the best of tempers as 
he betook himself to his cousin’s home. He felt that he 
had been kept in the dark, and this was a situation not ex- 
actly agreeable to him. It seemed as though Chloe, too, 
had been more watchfal than himself, and had discerned 
faults in the nurses which he with all his experience, had 
not been able to discover. But as he walked briskly along 
the road in the light of a late October moon, he began to 
recover his spirits and his temper. He remembered that 
Chloe was only a woman after all; and it was astonishing 
how much comfort that reflection brought to him. Women 
always exaggerate, always suspect each other, he said to 
himself with disgust. Probably the nurse was doing her 

9 


130 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


duty thoroughly, and Chloe was wasting her time and 
strength in spying upon her. Faugh! he did not like the 
idea. He must caution Chloe against giving way to wo- 
manish fancies. He was surprised indeed to think that she 
could allow them a place in her mind at all. 

Thus musing, he came in sight of King’s Leigh, a con- 
fused mass of broken roofs, gables, chimneys, as it seemed 
to him in the darkness, with the moonlight silvering the 
walls and lying in a great flood upon the terrace and the 
lawn. Dr. Fleming knew his way. He struck out a side 
path, which led from the avenue to a side-door, at which he 
tapped softly. It was opened almost immediately by old 
John, the almost superannuated butler, who had known the 
doctor when he was a boy. 

“Eh, doctor, it’s you, is it?” was old John’s greeting. 
“You’re late, bain’t you?” 

“Yes, rather. How’s your mistress to-night, John?” 

“The missis says she’s just as usual.” “The missis” 
was Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, with whom John waged a 
deadly feud, varied by moments of cordial and intimate 
friendship. “Miss Chloe’s here to-night, she tells me, 
though nobody was to know.” 

“Ah, yes,” said the doctor. 

“She wants to look after them nurses and Miss Wedder- 
burn too,” said John, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “She 
have an idea that th’ ould lady’s not attended to, proper. 
And you know what Chloe was alius like, doctor, ever 
since she were a little ’un. For all so sweet as she looks, 
if she wants a thing, she’ve got to have her way.” 

“Ay,” said Chloe’s father, recognizing a family trait. 
“You’re right there, John.” 

“So she’s staying, and Miss Wedderburn and the nurses 
and the maids don’t know nowt of it. They think she went 
home with her mar. The missis made up a bed for her, but 
I don’t believe she’s going to bed this night. 

“I think, John,” said Dr. Fleming with deliberation, 
“that I should like to go upstairs and take a look at your 


CHLOE’S SECRET. 


131 


mistress. You needn’t light me up, and you needn’t call 
Mrs. Green. Just give me a candle and a box of matches, 
and I’ll make out my own way.” 

John grumbled a little at not being allowed to accom- 
pany him, but the doctor was firm in doing things his own 
way. He crept along the passage, with John at his heels, 
to the foot of the back staircase which led up to the corri- 
dor in which Miss Kettlewell’s room was situated. He left 
John standing at the foot of the stairs, while he mounted 
them step by step in silence; for the oak boards creaked 
beneath his feet, and the balustrade seemed to groan as he 
laid his hand upon it. From, the staircase window, a silver 
radiance streamed upon the paneled walls. 

Suddenly, through the silence of the house a bell sent 
forth a strange clanging sound, as if it were pulled by hasty 
frightened hands which knew not hew hard they clung. 
Then a strange cry echoed from one of the upper rooms. It 
was a cry for help. Coming suddenly into the midst of that 
moonlit stillness, it had a blood-curdling effect and it was a 
woman’s voice. 

The two men forget their endeavor to tread softly, and 
rushed up the stairs to Miss Kettlewell’s room. 


132 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE FLAME IN THE SOCKET. 

Chloe’s preparations had not been of any very mysterious 
or alarming character. She had merely prevailed upon 
Mrs. Green (who heartily sympathized with her in her sus- 
picions of Nurse Ellen) to make up a bed for her in the sit- 
ting-room next Miss Kettlewell’s bedroom, which could be 
entered by the door in the wardrobe if necessary. From 
this room she could hear quite well a great deal of what 
passed in Miss Kettlewell’s chamber, the tinkling of glasses, 
the moving of chairs, and what seemed to Chloe a great deal 
of unnecessarily noisy preparation for the night. She re- 
solved to sleep in this room every night unless her father 
forbade her to do so, for she was sure that the knowledge of 
her presence would tend to make the nurse’s movements 
gentler and less careless. She was sure that there would not 
have been all that turmoil and confusion in the sick wo- 
man’s room if Nurse Ellen had known that one of the pa- 
tient’s relations was within hearing, 

Chloe felt herself something of a traitress. She re- 
proached herself for not having told the nurse what she 
meant to do. She liked to be fair and straightforward. 
But at the same time she saw that if she had told the nurse 
that she was going to sleep in the next room, her purpose 
would have been frustrated. After this first night. Nurse 
Ellen might know and welcome. But she first wished to 
know what was going on when nobody was at hand to check 
the nurse’s ways of dealing with her patient. It had seemed 
wrong several times to Chloe that none of Miss Kettlewell’s 
relations should be staying in the house at night. Dr. 
Fleming and Mr. Corbet had spent two or three nights 
there, certainly, and Mrs. Fleming and her daughters had 


THE FLAME IN THE SOCKET. 


133 


come during the day; but Miss Kettlewell’s known dislike to 
Mrs. Fleming as well as Miss Wedderburn’s insulting 
speeches, had put barriers in the way of her remaining, and 
at night, therefore, the old lady was usually left to the care 
of the two nurses and Mrs. Green. As long as the nurses 
were trustworthy, this arrangement was all right; but Chloe 
had conceived a dislike and distrust of the younger of the 
two, the one known as Nurse Ellen. 

The other nurse. Sister Mary, was a thoroughly sensible 
and reliable woman, whom everyone liked and respected. 
But it was she who had brought Nurse Ellen with her as her 
assistant, and Chloe had a natural dislike to complaining of 
the younger woman until she was certain that she had not 
been mistaken in her doubts. Perhaps they came only from 
Nurse Ellen’s rather sharp and disagreeable manner. Sister 
Mary was a lady; Nurse Ellen was not. And her rosy un- 
derbred face, her twinkling black eyes and immense bush of 
frizzled black hair, awoke an irritable feeling within Chloe’s 
gentle bosom whenever she saw the girl. Still, as she lay 
down on her camp bed near the door that led into Miss 
Kettlewell’s hanging-closet and thence into the bed-room, 
Chloe vowed to herself that she would never condescend 
to underhand measures again; they were humiliating, and 
especially if Nurse Ellen were indeed faithful to her trust 
horribly degrading in their effect upon the mind. 

She could not burn a light, lest it should shine through 
the cracks of the door; but the broad moonlight shone into 
the room and gave as much illumination as she desired. She 
took off her dress and wrapped a loose, soft dressing-gown 
round her; then she awaited the course of events. She 
knew that she was a light sleeper and would awaken at the 
slightest sound if she were at all on the alert, so she had no 
hesitation in sleeping for a little time, and at twelve she 
would rouse herself and make sure whether the nurse gave 
]\Iiss Kettlewell the medicine and the nourishment which 
were ordered at that hour. 

But suddenly she awoke from the light slumber into 


134 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


which she had dropped with an uneasy feeling, and a start. 
Someone had come into her room. Someone was gliding 
towards the door which led to the hanging closet and Miss 
Kettlewell’s room. Who could it be? 

The moonlight had shifted and left Chloe’s couch in 
darkness. The newcomer had evidently no idea that any- 
one was in the room. The figure was that of a tall slight 
woman in black with black drapery over her head — so 
strangely like that of a nun that Chloe involuntarily re- 
called the legend of a ghostly novice who was said to haunt 
the house after being murdered by a wicked abbess when 
King’s Leigh was a convent in pre-Eeformation times. The 
story was old and shadowy, and no one within living mem- 
ory was reputed to have seen the ghost, but Chloe’s mind re- 
verted to it instantly, and she wondered, with a shiver, 
whether its appearance heralded the approach of death. 

Then her senses and her memory came back to her, and 
she almost laughed. Of course it was Sister Mary gliding 
through the room on her way to pay a midnight visit to Miss 
Kettlewell. Chloe felt relieved and yet a little surprised. 
For had not Mrs. Green impressed upon her that neither of 
the nurses knew of the concealed entrance to Miss Kettle- 
well’s room? It was for that reason that she had chosen to 
spend the night in a place whence she could command en- 
trance at her will; for she had a strong suspicion that Nurse 
Ellen always locked the dressing-room door against visitors 
at eleven. And yet Sister Mary came that way when she 
went to make a midnight inspection of the patient and the 
night nurse. 

Chloe did not move. She hoped that Sister Mary would 
not see her, for she felt rebuked in her own mind for having 
suspected any want of care. Even if Nurse Ellen was inef- 
ficient or unconscientious, no doubt Sister Mary would step 
in to remedy all defects. So she waited quietly in her dark 
corner, while the black figure passed her by, pressed the 
button of the door into the hanging-closet and made her 
entrance into Miss Kettlewell’s room, leaving as Chloe was 


THE FLAME IN THE SOCKET. 


135 


quick to notice, the doors behind her just ajar. Nurse El- 
len’s heavy breathing could then be distinctly heard. As 
Chloe had surmised, she had made arrangements for her 
own comfort and fallen fast asleep; there was no appearance 
of her being ready to wake, for she did not arouse herself 
even when the elder nurse entered the room; she snored 
lustily in her armchair, leaving the necessities of her patient 
to chance. 

Chloe listened keenly. She expected to hear the sounds 
of her awakening, of Sister Mary’s severe reproof, of the 
slight clink of medicine bottle and spoon and glass, which 
would show that the nurses were complying with the orders 
given by Dr. Fleming. But she heard nothing at all. 

What could Sister Mary be doing? Why did she not 
wake her assistant? Did she imagine that Nurse Ellen had 
already attended to Miss Kettlewell’s requirements? There 
seemed a lull, an extraordinary silence in the room, the 
night-nurse still breathed heavily, but there was no other 
sound and Chloe’s nerves began to feel the strain of the 
unnatural silence. It seemed to her as though it would be 
a relief to scream. 

What sound was it that came at last? A most unex- 
pected and unaccustomed sound indeed. The turn of a key 
in a lock; the opening of a drawer — then the rustle of pa- 
pers, with odd silences between. Chloe drew herself into a 
sitting position on the edge of her bed and deliberated. She 
felt that she should very much like to know what Sister 
Mary was doing. Not that she distrusted her — oh, no, she 
was sure that Sister Mary was good and honorable and true; 
but — what was she doing at Cousin Keturah’s boxes and 
chests of drawers? For as it happened, Chloe was familiar 
with the sound of the clicking key that she had heard. Some 
sounds stamp themselves upon our memory in such a way 
that we can recall and recognize them to the last day of our 
lives; and Chloe distinctly remembered hearing that click 
as a child, when she stood one day in Cousin Keturah’s 
room, in dire disgrace upon some forgotten count, and when 


136 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Cousin Keturah had soleinnly unlocked a cedar wood box 
in her presence and remarked — ^‘Now, my dear, I am going 
to scratch your name out of my will.” 

It was a grotesque, almost a farcial incident, for Chloe 
knew that Miss Kettlewell had only been playing upon her 
childish fears; but she would remember the click of that key 
in the lock to her dying day. 

What was Sister Mary doing with Miss KettlewelFs cedar- 
wood box? 

Some prescription was missing, perhaps; some paper of 
instructions; and the nurse thought that it had been placed 
in one of the drawers, or in the box, that must be the expla- 
nation of her actions. Even then, Chloe’s indignation be- 
gan to wax hot within her. No nurse had any business to 
ransack Cousin Keturah’s boxes and chests of drawers. She 
herself would never have presumed to do such a thing. No, 
hateful though the errand was, she must present herself in 
the next room, and arrest Sister Mary’s hand. 

She rose, gathered her sweeping robe in one hand, so 
that it should not betray her approach, made her way to the 
wardrobe, and stood for a moment at the half-open door 
into the bedroom, surveying the scene. 

The fire cast a dull red glow upon the ceiling and the 
polished furniture. Before it, in a great chintz-covered 
chair, reclined Nurse Ellen, still soundly asleep. Bound 
the high mahogany four-posted bed, the flowered damask 
curtains were partially drawn, but Chloe could see the high 
frilled pillows, and the worn old face upon them, the white 
sheet on which Miss KettlewelFs thin hand was lying and 
the satin quilt which rested on the white counterpane. Sis- 
ter Mary’s tall dark figure was bent above an open drawer. 
A small candlestick was in one of her hands; the lighted 
candle threw strange flickering shadows of the veiled head 
about the room as she moved it hither and thither in search 
of something that she evidently hoped to find. The cedar- 
wood box seemed to be inside the drawer, and the restless, 
prying fingers hastily turned over the papers which it con- 


THE FLAME IN THE SOCKET. 


137 


tained, pausing now and then, apparently, as if to give 
their owner an opportunity of considering the nature of 
some specially interesting document. 

Chloe hesitated no longer. She walked swiftly and si- 
lently across the room, and laying her hand on the black- 
sleeved arm, said in a low but distinct voice — 

“What are you doing with Miss Kettlewell’s papers. Sister 
Mary?^’ 

Then she recoiled. It was not the face of Sister Mary 
that looked at her from under the somber veil. Chloe was 
not easily frightened, not easily dismayed, but something 
like a pang of absolute terror passed through her as she 
looked into the cold blue eyes of Lavinia Wedderburn. 

“You!” she exclaimed, her hands dropping to her sides. 

Miss Wedderburn said nothing for a minute or two; she 
too was taken by surprise. She had not suspected that 
Chloe Fleming was in the house. The muscles of her pale 
face twitched a little, the thin lips set themselves tighter, 
but the expression of her eyes did not change. She set the 
flickering candle down, and looked tentatively at the open 
drawer. The cedar-wood box was open, and the papers 
were in disorder. It did not escape Chloe’s notice that one 
piece of paper was crushed inside the bosom of Lavinia 
Wedderburn’s dress. Was it one that she had abstracted 
from the drawer, or was it one that belonged to herself. 

“What are you doing here?” said Chloe sternly, but in 
the low voice which was an essential in Miss Kettlewell’s 
vicinity. “You are not allowed to come into this room,” 
the girl said, taking the bull boldly by the horns. 

“Allowed!” exclaimed Miss Wedderburn, in her iciest and 
most disagreeable voice. “I don’t need a chit like you to 
tell me what I am allowed to do.” 

“You are certainly not allowed to search my cousin’s 
boxes and papers while she is ill, and at midnight too,” 
said Chloe steadily. “You will shut the drawer and give 
me the key, if you please.’’ 

Miss Wedderburn uttered a contemptuous laugh. “Do 


138 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


you think you can make me do what you tell me?” she 
asked turning to the drawer again, as though she designed 
to continue her search. But Chloe’s hand was instantly 
laid on her wrist. 

‘‘Are you not ashamed ?” said the girl. “After you have 
been here so long, and have been kindly treated for so many 
years — that you should turn against us all in this way, and 
ransack my cousin’s private drawers and boxes — I am sure 
I cannot imagine for what reason! — are you not ashamed 
of it, and of yourself?” 

“I am not going to be lectured by a girl,” said Miss Wed- 
derburn with perfect calm. “I am only looking for a paper 
of my own, which I left here by accident. To me it is a 
most important paper, but I knew that I should never re- 
ceive it unless I took my own means of doing so. You 
need not be afraid; I am not going to steal anything from 
Miss Kettlewell. I am quite in the habit of going to her 
drawers.” 

“Yes, in her presence, and at her request,” said Chloe. 
“Miss Wedderburn, unless you go away this moment, I 
shall wake the nurse and rouse the servants.” 

“You will have a difficulty in waking the nurse,” re- 
turned Miss Wedderburn who seemed to have reached the 
point where recklessness begins. “She has had — some- 
thing to make her sleep.” 

Chloe looked at her with wide-open eyes. “You mean 
you have drugged her!” she cried, in a louder voice. “Oh, 
you wicked, wicked woman!” 

Miss Wedderburn made a sudden movement as if she 
would have struck her; but it was not often that she com- 
pletely lost her self-control. 

“Take care what you say, Chloe Fleming,” she said in a 
tone of scornful warning, “your fate lies in my hands far 
more than you imagine. For every insult you heap upon 
me, I will have my revenge. I have been insulted and 
trampled upon ever since I came into this house more than 
ten years ago, and I have always looked forward to some fu- 


THE FLAME IN THE SOCKET. 


139 


ture day when I could tell you all what I think of you — how 
I hate and loathe and despise you! and the day has come at 
last.” 

Chloe drew back a step in absolute horror and dismay. 

“What have we done to you,” she said, “that you should 
speak to me like that?” 

“It matters very little what the distinct and separate 
reasons are,” said Miss Wedderburn calmly. “The fact re- 
mains that I hate you all — and if it is ever in my power to 
do you an injury. Miss Fleming, I shall not hold my hand.” 

Chloe would not bandy words any longer. She stepped 
backward, seized Nurse EUen by the arm and shook her 
violently. The woman was in a deep sleep but Chloe’s 
grasp partially aroused her at last. And then the girl 
reached across her to the woolen bell-rope that hung beside 
the mantelpiece and pulled it with all her might. The bell 
was a loud one, and she could hear it clang vigorously as 
she pulled and pulled until the rope came away in her hand. 
But she did not see what Nurse Ellen saw, as the sleep van- 
ished from her heavy eyes. She did not see a weird white 
figure raise itself slowly in the bed and lift its white-capped 
head and skeleton-like hands, and try to utter vague words 
of rage and denunciation and despair. The sight fright- 
ened Nurse Ellen more than anything she had ever seen in 
her life before. For she had looked on Miss Kettlewell as 
dead. 

And here was this paralytic woman, as good as dead, 
climbing forward on the bed, stretching out one long tremb- 
ling arm, pointing one shaking finger at the woman who 
stood beside the drawers, and finding voice at last to cry in 
a strange, shrill voice — 

“Thief! thief! thief!” 

Miss AVedderburn shrank back aghast. Chloe looked and' 
saw, and sprang to her cousin’s side. And it was then that 
Nurse Ellen, losing all control over herself, set up that ter- 
rible shriek of terror, that roused every sleeper in the house 
and bought the doctor, with flying steps, to Miss Kettle- 
well’s bedroom door. 


140 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 

Miss KettlewelFs door was locked, as Chloe had divined. 
She could not leave her cousin to demand the key from 
Nurse Ellen, she could only cry in answer to her father’s 
welcome voice and imperative knocks — 

‘‘Go round — go round. The wardrobe door.” 

Fortunately Dr. Fleming caught her words, and knew of 
the other door. It took him only a moment to make his way 
round, and during that instant Miss Wedderburn had made 
a frantic effort to escape. He met her at the very door of the 
room where Chlce had slept, just preparing to fly to the up- 
per rooms. He had wit enough to see that she was concerned 
in the trouble, whatsoever it might be; and he caught her 
at once by the. arm and compelled her to go back with him 
to Miss Kettlewell’s room. Here a strange sight met his 
eyes. His daughter was holding in her arms the gaunt 
white figure of the old woman, who was struggling with her 
furiously and gasping out threats of punishment against 
Miss Wedderburn, and vengeance on all the world in gen- 
eral. Chloe was trying to get her back to bed, but it was 
quite evident that her strength would not be equal to the 
effort. Dr. Fleming came up to her, and relieved her of her 
burden. 

“Come, come,” he said soothingly, “let me help youKetu- 
rah. Come, you’ll catch cold if you leave your bed like 
this. I have got Miss Wedderburn safe if you want her.” 
Then, over his shoulder, “Lock the door, Chloe, and don’t 
let Miss Wedderburn leave the room. But you may let in 
old John and anybody you can trust. Make that woman 
stop crying if you can.” 


IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 


141 


He alluded to Nurse Ellen, who had succumbed to a fit 
of hysterical crying, and was beginning to shriek again 
rather than to sob. Chloe locked the wardrobe-door, and 
then went into the dressing-room to admit John and Mrs. 
Green and Sister Mary, who were all gathered anxiously 
about the door. Miss Wedderburn showed no further in- 
tention of making her escape. She stood at the foot of the 
bed, looking white but perfectly stolid, while Miss Kettle- 
well, fully restored to sanity and speech, screamed accusa- 
tions at her from the bed, where Dr. Fleming was firmly and 
quietly holding her. 

‘•'That woman is meddling with my papers! She wants 
to rob me! She has robbed me all these years. She wants 
to get at my will! She is a thief! Search her, search her 
boxes, search her clothes. She has taken something — 
taken something that is mine!” 

“My dear cousin, calm yourself,” said Dr. Fleming sooth- 
ingly. “We will all do our best to keep you safe from her 
or any other person who will do you harm. Yes, she shall 
be searched, if you wish it. Yes, yes, we will do all you 
want. She had no business in your room, certainly; and she 
will have to answer for it by and by.” 

He spoke thus to soothe her, but his eye rested sternly 
on Miss Wedderburn, and read in her face an assurance that 
she would resist his authority with all the force at her com- 
mand. 

“Send her to prison!” cried the infuriated woman on the 
bed. “You are all cheating me — robbing me — ill-using 
me! Why am I left alone with nurses who forget me and 
sleep all night in their chairs? Why does not Laurence 
come? I can trust Laurence. I can trust no one else. 
Send for the police, John, John Driscoll, send for the po- 
lice, I tell you, unless you want to see your mistress mur- 
dered in her bed.” 

“She is raving,” said Miss Wedderburn, with calm con- 
tempt to Sister Mary, who now stood beside her with inquir- 
ing eyes. Dr, Fleming frowned her into silence, but Miss 


142 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Kettlewell had heard the words and now broke forth again 
with all the spurious strength which vindictive rage could 
give. 

“'We shall see if I am raving! Search her, Tom Fleming, 
search her, if you are an honest man. See what she has in 
her hand, in her pockets, in her dress. She has robbed me, I 
tell you — she shall restore what she has stolen before she 
leaves my house. Give up the paper you have taken, La- 
vinia Wedderburn, or the police will make you do it.” 

“If you have taken anything belonging to Miss Kettle- 
well, you had better restore it at once,” said Dr. Fleming. 

“I have taken nothing,” Lavinia Wedderburn replied. 

“You had a paper,” said Chloe, coming forward and 
pointing to the front of her dress. “I saw it there; where is 
it gone?” 

“You are a liar,” said Miss Wedderburn. “I have no 
paper on me at all.” 

“She had better be searched,” said Dr. Fleming quietly, if 
she will not show us what you saw, Chloe. Sister Mary, 
Mrs. Green, — Chloe; go with her into the next room, and 
make sure that she has none of Miss KettlewelFs papers in 
her possession. Kow, Cousin Keturah, we shall get back 
anything of yours that she may have taken.” 

But his promise proved vain. Chloe presently returned 
to say that although they had turned out Miss Wedder- 
burn’s pockets, examined her clothes, and in short searched 
her to the best of their ability, they had not found upon 
her a paper, or a valuable possession, of any kind. 

Dr. Fleming hesitated. It flashed through his mind that 
these three women were not professional searchers or detec- 
tives, and that Miss Wedderburn might have got the better 
of them still. “Take her to some safe place — not her own 
room, Mrs. Green,” he said, “and lock her in. We will in- 
vestigate further in the morning.” 

“Send her to prison!” moaned the old woman from the 
bed. Her strength was fast leaving her, and her face was 
changing color. Dr. Fleming looked at her and knew in 


IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 


143 


his own heart that Keturah Kettlewell’s end was nearly 
come. 

After a little hesitation, Mrs. Green suggested a small 
room at the end of the corridor, where she considered that 
Miss Wedderburn would be quite safe until morning. And 
thither Miss Wedderburn was removed, though not before 
she had thrown a mocking word at Dr. Fleming and Miss 
Kettlewell. 

“You are not so clever as you think yourselves,” she said. 
And, with a vicious glance at Chloe, “I shall be equal with 
you yet.” Then she sullenly moved towards the door, with 
Sister Mary and Mrs. Green as her warders, one on each side 
of her. She preserved a perfectly impassive demeanor as 
long as they were in her company. But they would have 
been amazed indeed if they could have seen her when she 
was alone in her prison-room, with the door locked, and no 
possibility of escape. For here, instead of weeping, or rag- 
ing, as many another woman — and particularly an innocent 
woman — would have done; she burst out laughing, and 
seemed in every way satisfied with her night’s work. 

“Fine detectives they would make!” she cried, alluding 
to the' nursing sister and the housekeeper. “Why, I should 
have known better what to do than they seem to have done. 
‘Turn out 3’-our pockets’ — oh yes, with all the pleasure in 
life. ‘Take off your dress,’ feel the lining, feel me all over 
if you like. ‘Take off your shoes.’ Oh yes, shoes; nothing 
in the shoes, why, where else is there to look?” 

She carefully felt her foot, then her hand traveled up her 
leg as far as the knee. There was scarcely anything un- 
usual to be felt. But it was in her stocking, the bit of blue 
paper that she wanted to keep; she had just had time to 
stoop and slip it beneath the fine black hose, before Chloe 
had turned back from the bell-rope to look at her. And 
they had never thought of searching her so closely as to find 
it there. She laughed again as she felt it, and slowly drew it 
out. It was not a very large bit of paper, and it was thin. 


144 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


She held it in her hand a minute or two and considered the 
matter. 

“I wish I had a light,” she said to herself at last. “It 
may be not worth keeping. It may be that I am troubling 
myself for nothing. If I could read it, I would see. But 
I must wait for morning, and what mayn’t happen before 
then? I think I can even make a safer place for it than 
this.” 

Her hands went up to her head. She had thick black 
hair, fastened up in neat plaits at the back. These she now 
took down, and carefully unwound in the. darkness. Then 
just as carefully she fastened them up again. But inside the 
coils of hair, a piece of thin blue paper was artfully con- 
cealed. It was easy enough to cover it with her hair. Of 
course she could not be quite certain that a corner of it was 
not visible between the thick black braids. She had to risk 
this, for she possessed no looking-glass and no light. She 
drew over her head the square of thin black stuff which she 
had assumed when she wished to personate Sister Mary, and 
laughed aloud at the success of her plan. 

Meanwhile, Dr. Fleming and Chloe watched together at 
Miss Kettlewell’s bedside. The dying woman’s fury had 
died away in moans and gasps and futile tears; at the last 
she lay quite still, pressing the doctor’s hand in one of hers, 
and holding Chloe by the other. She would not be silent, 
however, though speech was almost failing her. 

“I always liked you, Tom,” she said, “and I meant to 
leave everything to you, if you hadn’t married that girl 
from Surbiton, whom you know I always hated. Oh, well, 
I won’t speak of that. There are your girls, at any rate. 
Yes, they will have everything — everything. King’s Leigh 
and all. You’ll find it all properly arranged. If only noth- 
ing goes wrong through that woman — that woman — who 
tried to rob me, who would have robbed me if you had not 
come in time! 

“You’ll find my last Will and Testament in the cedar- 
box, if she hasn’t taken it away. And even if she has, why. 


IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. 


145 


the lawyers have it all safe, you know. They wonT let any- 
body else take the money from your girls, will they?” 

“Of course they will not, Keturah, if you have been so 
good as to make your will in their favor,” said the doctor 
kindly. 

She was silent for a moment. It seemed almost as though 
she were trying to remember something which half escaped 
her memory. 

“I have made a good many wills in my time,” she said. 
“I hope it’s all right. I mean your girls to have my money 
and King’s Leigh; you will remember that? Who else is 
here? Green, and John Driscoll? and that sleepy nurse? 
Oh, and Sister Mary, as you call her, she’s the better of the 
two. I call you all to witness, good people, that I want my 
house and my money to go to Chloe Fleming and Millicent 
Fleming, the daughters of my good cousin here. I have al- 
ways loved them best, though I may sometimes have seemed 
unkind, and I want them to have everything I have.” 

Then her mind seemed to wander a little, and she spoke 
of other things. 

“Frank,” she said — and Dr. Fleming remembered that 
that was the name of the man*she was to have wedded once, 
“Frank, dear, you are rather late. Where have 3'ou been? 
Oh, fishing — down by the marsh ponds. You’ll be drowned 
there some day. I’ve told you so many a time. Emme- 
line, is that you? Tell Frank not to go into those danger- 
ous marshy places any more. How changed you both are! • 
Am I changed too? Shall we know each other when we 
meet?” 

Her voice sank in a whispering sigh. She lay quiet for 
a little time, with a strange look of peace upon her face. 
When she opened her eyes, her senses had come back to her, 
and she spoke rationally again. 

“Chloe,” she said, “I like your young friend Frances. 
You might do something for her some day. I meant to do 
something for her myself, but I’m afraid I have forgotten. 
You’ll be good to her, will you not?’* 

10 


146 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Of course I will, dear Cousin Keturah.’’ 

“She’s a good girl. And that isn’t all. You should 
trace out the people she belongs to. Get — Laurence — to 
tell you. She belongs in some way to the Herons, you may 
be sure of that. There is something about her — that’s un- 
mistakable. Tell Laurence I say so.” 

“Yes, Cousin, we will tell him.” 

“Don’t forget. Look, she’s coming towards me, in her 
white dress and the pretty flowers in her hand. Don’t you 
see her, Chloe? There, in the middle of the room.” 

The thin Anger tried to point, and then fell on the coun- 
terpane. Chloe murmured something caressing; but she 
could not bear to say that she did not see what, in her dying 
hour, Keturah Kettlewell saw. 

“Is it Frances?” the old woman murmured, in a changed 
tone, “or is it Emmeline? I scarcely know one from the 
other now — they are so much alike. You’ll remember what 
I say, Chloe? You will always be good to Frances — for 
Emmeline’s sake.” 

Greatly wondering, Chloe promised. Neither she nor 
the other listeners knew whether the dying woman’s mind 
was wandering or not. • 

“And you must punish Lavinia Wedderburn, unless — 
unless — If you find it is all right, you can let her go. So 
long as you and Milly get it all, I don’t mind. Only be sure 
that it is all right; and then you can let Lavinia go. And 
be good to the animals, good to Jim,” said the old lady, 
with reviving energy. “Don’t forget what I tell you Chloe” 
— with the sharpness that Chloe remembered so well in days 
of old. 

“I will remember all you say. Cousin Keturah.” 

“That’s all right. Now say good-night and go to bed. 
It’s getting late for a child like you. Give my love to 
Milly, and to Frances and — Frank, Emmeline, are you 
there? Do you know me still?” 

The answer to her questions came to her in another 
world than ours. Her head fell back upon the pillow. 
Keturah Kettlewell’s long and dreary pilgrimage was done. 


LAVINIA’S HOPE. 


147 


CHAPTER XVIL 
LAVINIA’S HOPE. 

With the morning light, Dr. Fleming interviewed Miss 
Wedderburn again, and, after closely cross-questioning her, 
thought it better to let her leave the house. Miss Kettle- 
well had recommended her to mercy, so to speak, and on the 
whole it seemed to him advisable to make no scandal, es- 
pecially as he could not discover that she had taken any- 
thing of importance from his cousin’s room. He warned 
her, however, that he might still find it necessary to pursue 
his investigations into her character, and that he should 
then be obliged to acquaint the police with all that had oc- 
curred. At which remark. Miss Wedderburn had the 
temerity to laugh. 

“I am astonished that you can laugh at what I say,” Dr. 
Fleming observed with some sternness. ‘^One would have 
thought that a person who had lived with my cousin so long 
would at least have shown some feeling at the news of her 
death.” 

“You did not tell me she was dead,” said Miss Wedder- 
burn imperturbably. Then, after a moment’s pause: “I 
have no reason to feel sorry that she is dead. My life here 
has been a bondage. I have stayed for the sake of the sal- 
ary, and for nothing else.” 

“There is no reason why we should detain you in the 
house, then. You are at liberty to go. Miss Wedderburn 
when you please,” 

Lavinia looked at him with a dull, cold light in her eyes. 
“You take the upper hand. Dr. Fleming. Have you no ex- 
cuse to offer me for the insults to which I was subjected 
last night? Don’t you know that I could take out a sum- 
mons for assault after being forcibly searched, dragged into 


148 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


a cold room, and left there all night, falsely accused and 
brow-beaten?” 

“I don’t think you would get much by that move,” said 
the doctor quietly. “You were found prying into my 
aunt’s boxes and private drawers. She accused you of tak- 
ing one of her papers — I fancy you had better let the matter 
drop: you might get the worst of it.” 

Possibly Miss Wedderburn thought so too in her heart, 
for although she sneered, she uttered no further taunts or 
threats, and, after packing her boxes rather hurriedly, she 
left the house, metaphorically shaking the dust from her 
feet as she did so. And those who were left behind her, in 
charge of the dead, breathed more freely when she was out 
of the house. 

Miss Wedderburn turned her steps deliberately towards 
Rush ton, and to the house of the Reverend Silas Wedder- 
burn. It was still early when she reached it and her quick 
eye discerned that the servant who was scrubbing the door- 
step, wore no cap, and cultivated a bushy fringe. In spite 
of her preoccupation, Lavinia gave the maid a malevolent 
glance as she passed by. When she was mistress of that 
house, as she fully intended to be before very long, no ser- 
vant of liers should wear a fringe or be seen without a very 
determinate kind of cap. 

“Is your master down yet?” said Miss Wedderburn, ad- 
dressing the girl stiffly. 

The girl had not seen her before, and stared defiantly. 
“What’s that to you, I should like to know?” she muttered, 
removing her pail and beginning to scrub the lowest step. 

“Will you answer me, if you please; I asked if your 
master was down.” 

“Of course he ain’t; and if he was, he wouldn’t see any- 
one at this time of day.” 

“I think he will see me,” said Lavinia, walking calmly 
into the house, much to the girl’s indignation, “and so I 
shall wait till he comes down; and you may make me a cup 
of tea, as I have had no breakfast And by the bye, my good 


LAVINIA’S HOPE. 


149 


girl, you had better put on your cap and make yourself look 
like a respectable young person before you bring me my 
tea.” 

“Well, I never! Of all the impertinence,” 

“That will do,” said Miss Wedderburn frigidly. “You 
do not know, I perceive, that I am your master’s nearest 
relative, and am coming here to stay,” she did not add that 
she intended to stay for ever, but Jane was quick enough to 
infer as much. “Kindly bring me the tea as soon as you 
can, and attend to what I say.” 

She walked straight into the dining-room as she spoke 
and Jane retired to the kitchen, to confer with the old wo- 
man who filled the post of housekeeper to Mr. Wedderburn. 
The housekeeper had met Miss Wedderburn before, and 
cordially disliked her. “There’ll be changes in this house 
before long if so be she’s come to stay.” 

“I shall go for one,” said Jane angrily. 

“But I wonder what’s happened,” said Mrs. Telfer. “She 
was companion to that old Miss Kettlewell of King’s Leigh 
— a rich old heathen, as I’ve heard say; and she’s either 
been turned away or Miss Kettlewell’s dead, if she thinks 
of staying here, I expect the old lady’s dead; she’s been 
very ill and off her head, I’ve been told. I wonder whether 
she’s left Miss Wedderburn anything.” 

“Let’s hope it will make her a bit more amiable, if she 
has,” said Jane, shrugging her shoulders, and arranging 
her cap at the looking-glass. 

Meanwhile Miss Wedderburn was also at the mirror. 
There was a long, old-fashioned looking-glass over the man- 
telpiece, in which she inspected herself critically. A sleep- 
less night, a night of excitement and of fear, has visibly im- 
paired her appearance. Her face looked drawn and hag- 
gard, the shadows under her eyes and the worn lines beside 
her lips added ten years to her age. Her hair was less 
smooth and glossy than usual, although nothing destroyed 
it’s natural wave — so regular that it looked artificial, on 
either side of her forehead. Her bonnet was tilted a little 


150 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


on one side; she put it straight. She tied the scarf at her 
throat afresh, and removed her mantle. When she had had 
a cup of tea, she would be ready to encounter Silas. She 
wanted to make a favorable impression upon him, and not 
to tell him exactly all that she had gone through. 

Jane brought the tea with a sulky air, and Miss Wed- 
derburn drank it in a leisurely way. On inquiring, she 
was told that Mr. Wedderburn seldom came downstairs be- 
fore ten, and as she declared that she did not wish him to be 
disturbed on her account, she remained alone for an hour 
or more. 

Shortly before ten, a shuffling noise on the stairs was 
heard, and Silas entered shortly afterwards, clad in a loose 
warm dressing gown, with large quilted slippers upon his 
feet. He looked somewhat ungainly and dingy in this at- 
tire, but Miss Wedderburn’s cold eyes saw nothing amiss. 
If Silas had chosen to be affectionate to her, she would have 
thought him the finest and handsomest man in the world. 
As it was, he snubbed her a little too often to warrant her 
in throwing the reins on the neck of her emotions. 

“Lavinia !” he said. “ Y ou here ?” 

The tone was not exactly encouraging. But Miss Wed- 
derburn was not one to be easily disheartened. 

She said ‘’Yes, Silas,” very meekly, and rang the bell for 
his breakfast. 

“How is it that you are here so early — and so unex- 
pectedly?” said the minister. 

Lavinia produced her pocket-handkerchief, and pro- 
ceeded to wipe fictitious tears from her eyes. 

‘T am sorry to inform you, Silas, that my esteemed friend. 
Miss Kettlewell, died this morning, between the hours of 
twelve and one o’clock.” 

Silas was unfeignedly sorry and said so. He had always 
felt Miss Kettlewell to be a barrier between himself and 
Lavinia. Now that the barrier was swept away, what was 
he to do? 

The breakfast dishes — kidneys and bacon — came in at 


LAVINIA’S HOPE. 


151 


that moment, with a liberal supply of hot coffee and milk, 
toast and marmalade. Silas liked a good breakfast. Miss 
Wedderburn seated herself quite naturally at the head of 
the table, and poured out his coffee. After all, Mr. Wed- 
derburn reflected, it was very nice to have someone at the 
table who could relieve you of the trouble of pouring out 
coffee for yourself. 

“Then why have you left so early, my dear Lavinia?” 
he said. “Do help yourself to coffee.” 

“Thank you, Silas, I will,” said Miss Wedderburn 
promptly. “And I’ll trouble you for a kidney. I have 
walked over from King’s Leigh and had no breakfast. I 
have left the house so early because the Flemings are now 
paramount, and the Flemings, Silas, are no friends of 
mine.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it. The doctor attends me for noth- 
ing,” said Silas thoughtfully. 

“I shall never be an occasion of dissension between you,” 
said Miss Wedderburn pensively, “I would never permit 
such a thing. But the fact is, Silas, that the Flemings have 
long shown a considerable jealousy of me; my position, my 
friendship with Miss Kettlewell, have caused them to look 
upon me as an interloper.” 

“I suppose they think she has left you something. Well, 
I hope she has, Lavinia; she ought to have made you com- 
fortable for life.” 

“I doubt it, Silas,” said Lavinia. “She may have left 
me a trifle — but that w'ill be all. I begged her very often 
not to think of me, T have had my salary, an ample salary,’ 

I said to her, ‘and I should have been foolish indeed if I had 
not saved out of that; so do not excite the anger of your re- 
lations, my dear Miss Kettlewell, by bequeathing to me 
anything that might otherwise pass to them.” 

“That was generous of you, Lavinia,” said Silas, as he 
helped himself a second time to kidney and bacon, and 
then stretched out his hand for the toast, “but I do not 
know that it was particularly wise.” 


152 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Better to be less wise than mercenary,” said Miss Wed- 
derburn piously. “I think, however, there are things that 
I love better than money.” And this was perfectly true. 
For better than money she loved the thought of revenge and 
the wreaking of her spite on persons who had injured her. 

“Well, well, well!” said Silas ponderously, “that is right, 
of course. But you are a single woman, Lavinia, with 
small means.” 

“Yes, indeed, Silas!” 

“And you see, I am not a rich man.” He spoke rather 
• awkwardly. “My health is very poor. I am not fitted to 
take new responsibilities upon me.” 

A flash from Lavinia’s pale blue eyes might have en- 
lightened him as to the effect of these words upon her — if 
only he had seen it. But he did not see it, his eyes were 
roving restlessly about the room — anywhere, except on her. 
She sighed and answered with gentle deprecation, dropping 
her tired lids over the angry tell-tale eyes. 

“I would not for the world be an encumbrance, Silas, I 
only came to ask if you would allow me to stay here for a 
day or two, until I can get my boxes from King’s Leigh and 
look around me. The Flemings have been most unkind to 
me,” she said sadly. “They told me, as soon as ever the 
breath was out of poor Miss Kettlewell’s body, that they 
could dispense with my services. They had not dared to 
turn me away before her death. If I might stay here for a 
day or two, I would not inconvenience you, and I should 
then have time to look round for a new situation.” 

The handkerchief was again called into play at this point, 
and Miss Wedderburn (with her back to the light) pre- 
sented to her cousin that spectacle — always touching to un- 
sophisticated man — of a refined female (so Mr. Wedder- 
burn would have said) in distress. His heart, was touched 
a little, especially as he gathered that she did not want to 
marry him immediately, or even to spend a great length of 
time in his house. 

“Stay, Lavinia my dear, by all means,” he said promptly. 


LAVINIA’S HOPE. 


153 


“This house is always open to you, as you know. A lonely 
man — I am proud to think that I can otter you a shelter — 
for a time.” 

“You are too good, Silas,” said Lavinia, in a subdued 
tone. 

Inwardly she was raging. Had he forgotten that it was 
an understood thing between them that he was to marry 
her as soon as she was free? She had waited on at King’s 
Leigh in the hope of a legacy, and was he going to forget 
the promises that had been exchanged between them? 
Would he be so base as to back out of his engagement be- 
cause she had come to him all but penniless? These were 
the questions which agitated Lavinia Wedderburn’s breast; 
but she was too wary to betray a feeling of this kind. 

“I suppose,” said Mr. Wedderburn, after devoting a little 
attention to the marmalade, “that the Flemings will not 
keep back the money that must be owing to you? Surely 
a cheque was due — about the time that Miss Kettlewell was 
taken ill?” 

“It was,” she said with a sudden flush, “but I do not 
know — I cannot tell — whether they think of paying it.” 

She was not thin-skinned; but even she said to herself 
at that moment that she could not accept money from the 
hands of those who had insulted her and accused her of 
being a thief. And was she not a thief after all? By an 
involuntary movement, she touched the braids of her shin- 
ing black hair. Ah, the paper was safe, after all. She 
drew a quick, sobbing sigh. 

Silas misinterpreted her emotion. “You must not give 
way to sentimentality, Lavinia,” he said. “It is the bane 
of our family, I know. I myself — on occasions — have been 
vanquished by it. Only the sternest sense of duty has suc- 
ceeded in banishing the specter of foolish sentiment from 
my heart. You must be brave and uphold your rights.” 

“I will, Silas,” said Miss Wedderburn faintly. 

“If not, you must remember that you have a cousin who 


154 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


will look after them for you. I will write, if necessary, to 
Dr. Fleming on your behalf.” 

“You need not do that,” said his cousin, with her ac- 
customed primness of demeanor. “I am equal to fighting 
my own battles, Silas; I am afraid of no man, and shall 
have not the slightest hesitation in claiming from Dr. 
Fleming all that I am entitled to.” 

“That ’is right — very right, Lavinia,” said Mr. Wedder- 
burn. But he looked uncomfortable, and Lavinia saw it. 

“Xo, I am afraid of no man,” she repeated with decision* 
“I am always ready to claim my rights when necessary.” 

“Yes,” said Silas. But there was no enthusiasm in his 
voice. 

Then Lavinia resumed her supple deferential manner. 

“How happy I am to be in your dear house,” she said, 
“where I have nothing to demand, where all is conceded to 
me that I desire — a little friendship, a little affection, a 
haven from the world. Oh, Silas, if you only knew how 
like heaven your home appears to me, you would not won- 
der that instead of shedding tears of grief for my poor dear 
Miss Kettle well, I am more inclined to shed tears of joy at 
the thought of staying here — if only a few short days.” 

“I shall be delighted to have you here — for a few days, 
Lavinia,” said the minister, in a somewhat constrained and 
abstracted manner, 

“For a few days, yes, Silas dear. And I can be of use to 
you while I am here, I am sure that Mrs. Telfer cheats 
you, I can see it in her eye. I wonder you got rid of that 
nice old woman who was here when I came, to see you last. 
And that girl, Jane — an impertinent minx! I will look 
after your household a little while I am here, Silas, and 
reform it, if I can. You want someone to manage for you, 
you know, and I will see” — nodding at him plavfullv— 
“what I can do.” 

The last thing Mr. Wedderburn wanted was someone to 
manage his affairs, which were just then a little compli- 
cated, and he looked ruefully at his cousin. But Miss 


LAVINIA’S HOPE. 


. 155 


Wedderburn only smiled the more effusively, and asked if 
she should ring for Jane to take the breakfast-things away. 

Silas assented and went off tO' his study for a smoke, while 
Miss Wedderburn asked placidly to be shown to the best 
bedroom. And w'hen there, she sat down to think. 

“So he means to back out of it now that I am poor, does 
he?” she said to herself. “But I shall not allow it. I said 
I was afraid of no man, and I am not afraid of him. I 
could manage his affairs for him much better than they are 
managed now. He ought to be glad to confide them to my 
care. Besides — besides — I may be worth something to him 
yet.” 

Then she took off her bonnet and her dress, and let down 
the coils of her black hair. And twisted into the last thick 
coil, there was the paper that contained the latest Will and 
Testament of Keturah Kettlewell. 

Lavinia Wedderburn smiled at it triumphantly, before 
she hid it away. 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


i6e 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

FATHER AND SON. 

Matthew Derrick the miller lived no longer in the house 
beside the mill where he had lived in the days of his early 
married life. When he had amassed a competency — more 
than a competency, some people said — he built himself an 
ugly square brick house in a new and spiky garden, fur- 
nished the house with the brightest colors that he could 
find, and felt himself proud and happy. His wife for whom 
the house had been built, never seemed to flourish in it, pre- 
cisely. She missed the coming and goings of the humble 
home, the tramp of feet beside it, the murmur of the river, 
the whirr of the mill. She lived an ailing life in the new 
house for three or four years, and then she died, leaving 
behind her the son for whom his parents had done all they 
could to make him “a gentleman ” 

They were not gentlefolk themselves. They had no trace 
of good breeding or ancestry about them. They had been 
working-people for generations, with a certain sturdiness 
of intellect perhaps, and an unfailing rectitude of life which 
had compelled the respect of all who knew the Derrick 
family. If they were proud at all, they were proud of their 
honesty, of their domestic piety, of their respectability — 
of all the commonplace virtues which are supposed to flour- 
ish chiefly among the bourgeoisie. And until Matthew 
Derrick’s time, they had not known the temptation of 
wealth. But Matthew had ‘"made money,” and had re- 
solved that his son should be a gentleman. 

There was nothing in Andrew to bar the way. 
He was quite good-looking, good tempered, studious at 
times, yet not averse from active exercise; he had 


FATHER AND SON. 


157 


borne himself very well so far in every relation of 
life. At Oxford, indeed, he had done more— he had 
shown absolute brilliancy, and had gained high hon- 
ors; but these had left him, with some disgust at the easi- 
ness of his success. He did not quite know what to do with 
his life as yet. He lacked an interest — an object. His fa- 
ther wanted him to embark on the stormy career of politics; 
Andrew, with a sense that he was not cut out to be a poli- 
tician, would rather have buried himself in his books. The 
father did not argue, did not try to press his point home; 
but Andrew was quite conscious of what lay on his mind. 

Old Mr. Derrick was a fine-looking man in his way; his 
snow-white beard and hair gave dignity to a rugged face, 
and his fine dark eyes were full of energy and power. ‘The 
old lion,” Andrew had dubbed him in a playful moment, 
and there was indeed some sort of likeness to the monarch 
of the forest, deriving itself perhaps from the untamable- 
ness of his glance, the thickness of his white mane of hair. 
He sat one afternoon in a room which he was pleased to call 
his study — though there was little sign of study about it, 
save a big desk, and a few books of reference in shelves — 
and here, as he deliberately smoked his pipe, he was joined 
by Andrew his son. 

The two men did not exchange any greeting. Matthew 
Derrick continued to puff out great clouds of smoke. He 
was sitting in a big armchair, with his feet on the fender; 
for he had a touch of rheumatism and the day was cold. 
Andrew, who had a band of crape on his coat sleeve, drag- 
ged forward a Windsor chair, and sat astride upon it, his 
arms resting on the back, and his chin upon his arm. There 
they sat for some time, without speaking; it was their idea 
of companionship. 

“Smoke?” said old Derrick at last. 

“No,” said Andrew, shaking his head. 

Then they were silent for a good while, both gazing into 
the embers of the fire. Once Mr. Derrick stirred uneasily 
and glanced at his son as if to ask a question; but Andrew 


158 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


did not move, did net look, and his father withdrew his 
eyes and kept silence. 

At last the son lifted his head, and drew himself up. 

“Well, we’ve buried her,” he said. 

“Ah. Sorry I could not go myself. Many people at the 
funeral?” 

“Poor old woman, yes. A great crowd. Heaven knows 
what they care for, unless it was to stare at — the relations.” 

Matthew Derrick noted the pause before the word. 
“What relations were present?” he asked cautiously. 

“Oh, Mr. Corbet, of course. And his ward, by the way — 
though she is not a relation, I believe. It is the fashion for 
women to go to funerals nowadays.” Andrew’s voice was 
grim. He did not often like the fashions of the day. “Dr. 
Fleming was there, and his wife. Oh, and his daughters of 
course.” He pretended to speak indifferently. His father 
smoked and said nothing. 

“What a humbug it all is!” exclaimed Andrew, getting up 
from his chair, and strolling round restlessly. “Here’s an 
enormous cro'wd of people assisting at the obsequies of a wo- 
man whom nobody knew and nobody liked, and who had 
lived like a hermit for a couple of generations. If she had 
been a poor woman, nobody would have cared whether she 
lived or died. Because she was rich, there is all this to-do. 
Yet I am sure that nobody cared for her.” 

“The Hernesdales — were they present?” 

“Yes. The Earl, and his son.” 

“That was the proper thing. Of course you know she 
would ha’ been Countess if she had lived. Engaged to 
Frank, the last Earl but one; he got himself drowned one 
winter down at the marsh-ponds. The Hernesdales always 
professed a mighty consideration for her.” 

“Poor old woman!” said Andrew, in rather a softened 
tone. But he still continued his perigrinations up and 
down the room. “I saw that woman who used to be her 
companion — what’s her name, Wedderburn? Cousin of 
your minister, dad. She was looking on with a queer sort 


FATHER AND SON. 


159 


of expression upon her face; not sorrowful, I should say. 
Yet she had lived with the old lady for more than ten 
years.” 

“There’s few old folk that have any to mourn for them,” 
said Derrick. 

“Their own fault, then,” 

“Na — na. Some day Andrew, thou’lt be wanting the old 
man out o’ the way.” 

“May I perish first,” said Andrew, hotly and hastily. 
^Tjife won’t ever seem the same to me without the old man 
waiting by the fire, for me to bring him home the news.” 

“Ay, ay! And what news is there to-day, Andrew?” 

The old man put down his pipe and looked at his son 
curiously. 

“Nothing new,” said Andrew curtly, 

“WTiat, did you hear nothing about Miss Kettle well’s 
will?” 

“Oh, yes. I waited to hear that piece of news. She has 
left everything as she said she would.” 

“To the Flemings? Everything to those bits of girls. It 
seems a waste, does it not?” said the father craftily. “A wo- 
man is no good at managing property. It takes a man. 
They’ll have to marry someone who is good at business and 
can look after their affairs,” 

“A sort of bailiff or steward,” said Andrew bitterly. Then, 
after a short pause: “Nay, they’re more likely to marry men 
with titles, men who think little even of such a fortune as 
they can bring. Lord Heron is already spoken of for one 
of them; it will not be long before we hear of a match for 
Chloe, too.” 

The name slipped out unawares, Matthew Derrick re- 
placed his pipe in his mouth and smoked meditatively. An- 
drew walked up and down the room. 

“It isn’t a title that brings happiness,” said the father at 
last, with the air of a man who has discovered a novel 
truth. 


160 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Andrew laughed. “It is supposed to bring a good deal of 
satisfaction to a woman's heart/’ he said. 

“Not if she’s a good woman. Not if she’s a woman like 
your mother, Andrew. And I always thought Chloe Flem- 
ing a good woman and a true one, as well as a pretty girl 
with a soft spot in her heart for a good man and an old 
friend, like yourself, Andrew.” 

“It’s no use; don’t talk like that, dad,” and the young 
man’s voice shook, in spite of his affectation of cheerful- 
ness. 

“Has she refused thee, Andrew, lad?” 

“I haven’t asked her. I’m glad to say.” 

“Eh?” 

“Do you think I could ask her to be my wife when she’s 
one of the richest women of the country-side?” 

“I don’t see why not,” said old Derrick, reflectively. “I’d 
have asked your mother to marry me, if she’d had a million 
a year.” 

“I can’t do that,” said Andrew, marching up and down 
the room again. 

Presently he came to a standstill, opposite his father, and 
looked at him with the odd mixture of embarrassment and 
affection, which old Derrick used to know, in his son’s boy- 
ish days, as the preface to a confession or a request. 

“Speak up, lad,” he said, with the glimmer of a smile. 

“Dad, I wish it was anything else I wanted to say to 
you.” 

“Out with it, then! Waiting doesn’t make things any 
better. What dost want?” 

“I want to go away for a few months, dad. I should like 
to go round the world, I think. You see I must do some- 
thing. I can’t bear to stay here and — look on.” 

“You think she has no care for you, then, Andrew, my 
lad?” 

“I — I can’t think it now. If she has, it will be frowned 
down as a fancy beneath her station; and I’ll never marry 
a woman who thinks herself above me.” 


FATHER AND SON. 


161 


“Chloe wouldn’t think herself above thee, ladl” 

“But other people would. And it makes me mad,” said 
the young man, in a tone of desperate irritation. “Why on 
earth could not Miss Kettlewell leave her money to Lau- 
rence Corbet? The Flemings don’t want it — they are well 
enough off — ” 

Derrick could not forbear a laugh. “Fleming works 
hard for his living,” he said. “And Corbet’s got plenty of 
his own. No, I don’t think the worse of her for that.” 

“At any rate,” said Andrew, “it sets up a barrier between 
her and me which I cannot be the one to surmount.” 

“You don’t expect her to surmount it then, do you?” 

“She does not care for me, father. The best thing I can 
do is to go away, and give her time to forget that she once 
thought — she may have thought — that I loved her.” 

“Better to stay and get it over here, my boy.” 

“I can’t, father.” 

And he turned such a look of trouble upon his father that 
Matthew Derrick actually put down his pipe and held out 
his hand. 

“I’ll do all in my power to help ye, my lad,” he said, 
as Andrew wrung his hand affectionately. 

“I know you will, dad. But I’ve made up my mind to 
get out of this for a time. I can’t stand it. So I might as 
well go and see the world a bit.” 

“I think you’re wrong, you know, Andrew. I’d ask the 
lass to marry me at all events.” 

“Not with all those thousands a year at her back, dad. 
I couldn’t bear it. I’ll be no woman’s lackey, not even 
Chloe’s, though I love her — better than my life.” 

“But not better than thy pride,” said Mr. Derrick 
shrewdly. And although Andrew protested to the con- 
trary, he hung his head, as one that knew himself to be 
blameworthy. After a few moment’s reflection, however, 
he raised it proudly, with the observation. 

“It’s better for me to go. I should eat my heart out if I 
stayed here, watching her conquests.” 
u 


162 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


And there was so much bitterness in his tone that Mr. 
Derrick forebore to argue the question further. In truth, 
he sympathized with his son far more than he would have 
allowed. It would have been an almost unbearable wound 
to his pride if he had married a woman richer than him- 
self, and he would scarcely have liked to see his son doing 
it. In fact, had Andrew married Chloe, the father would 
very possibly have irritated his son to madness by throw- 
ing out gibes concerning the position of a man who weds a 
woman much richer than himself. There would have been 
a quarrel between them as soon as the engagement was an- 
nounced. 

Having so much of the same fiber in them, therefore, 
Matthew Derrick did not oppose his son’s project. He had 
never been abroad himself, but he thought it was right for 
every gentleman to go. So he equipped his son hand- 
somely, gave him as big an allowance as he could afford, and 
told him to go and enjoy himself. 

“And bring me home a daughter-in-law,” he said, “only 
not a brown one, if you please.” 

“Not one at all,” said Andrew. “I shall be an old bach- 
elor, and shall come and smoke my pipe w'ith you here be- 
fore very long, dad. Only, for a little while, I feel as if it 
might be better for me to get away.” 

“Well, may be it is, maybe it is,” said the old. man, hesi- 
tatingly. Then, with a sudden softening of his rough 
voice: “Don’t be too long away, lad. I’m not so young as 
I was, and I — I shall miss you sorely.” 

Andrew was touched and grieved. ^I never thought 
you’d mind, dad,” he said wistfully. “You’ve let me go 
away before — to Oxford — ” 

“Yes, but I thought you’d be back soon each time you 
went away. I’ve often counted the days to your home- 
coming, Andy. And this time I thought you were settling 
down, and would make a home of the old place. But you 
will do it by and by; I’m sure of that.” 


FATHER AND SON. 


163 


“I’ll bring myself home, that is all I can promise,” said 
Andrew. 

“Well, that will be enough for me. I’ll just look for- 
ward to it, till you come. And mind, you needn’t hurry 
yourself on my account. If you do go, you might as well 
see things properly. You can tell me what you’ve seen in 
the evenings when you come home again.” 

“The long evenings when we start our bachelor life to- 
gether,” said Andrew cheerfully. But he did not feel so 
very cheerful after all. 


164 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AS REGARDS FRANCES. 

As Andrew Derrick had told his father, Miss Kettlewell, 
by her will left her possessions to Chloe and Millicent Flem- 
ing, to be divided equally between them. She bequeathed 
a few legacies of no great importance to a few friends and to 
her servants; also, to the surprise of a good many people, 
there was an annuity to Miss Wedderburn. Nobody had 
expected her to leave anything to the woman whom she had 
alternately patronized and browbeaten for so many years; 
but as several people remarked it showed that, vulgarly 
speaking, Miss Kettlewell’s bark had been worse than her 
bite. 

Miss Kettlewell had also made a condition that the 
Flemings should leave Rushton and inhabit King’s Leigh 
as long as either of the girls was under age. When Milly 
was twenty-one another arrangement could be made; and 
there were elaborate instructions concerning the future 
ownership of the beautiful old house which was to belong 
to that one of the sisters who married last, while the one 
first married, was to receive a very large sum of money out 
of the estate as compensation for her loss. It was a cu- 
rious and complicated will, but perfectly valid and in order, 
giving no reason to any person to say that it had been dic- 
tated by a woman of unsound mind. Of course, as one or 
two people observ^ed, if the contents of the will had been 
distasteful, either to the Flemings or to Miss Kettlewell’s 
nearest relative, Laurence Corbet, it would have been fairly 
easy to upset it on the ground of Miss Kettlewell’s eccen- 
tricities and abnormal behavior during the last months of 
her life; for the will had been drawn up only in June — the 
June of the year in which she died. But everybody was 


AS REGARDS FRANCES. 


166 


well satisfied, and the will was duly proved and carried into 
execution; and the Flemings prepared to remove from 
Rushton to King’s Leigh, 

To this removal, however, Mrs. Fleming strongly ob- 
jected. She said she would willingly do all she could for 
the welfare of their girls; but she thought it rather unnec- 
essary that the whole household should be transported to 
King’s Leigh for the next two years. “It may be less 
than two years,” she said to her husband, “the girls might 
marry befo-re then — and we might have to turn out. I will 
never consent, Tom, to live in the house of a married 
daughter, and be considered the proverbial mother-in- 
law.” 

“I don’t think your sons-in-law will fall out with you, 
Margaret.” 

“Perhaps not; but we should have to come back to Rush- 
ton again if our daughters married,” she persisted with 
some warmth. “And it seems to me a pity that we should 
give up this house entirely. What will become of your 
practice, Tom?” 

“Oh, that will be all right,” said Dr. Fleming, with a 
laugh, “You don’t suppose I am going to live on my 
daughters, do you Maggie? We will keep this house on, 
and let Gurney — ” Gurney was his assistant — “have a room 
or two here; and I’ll keep a room for myself too; it will al- 
ways be convenient for you when you want to come into 
Rushton, and you need not remove all your stores and your 
treasures. They will all be here when you want to come 
back to it.” 

Mrs. Fleming’s eyes brightened. The plan seemed prac- 
tical and feasible. It had seemed to her a veritable tempt- 
ing of Providence to give up the homely, comfortable house 
that had been their home for so many happy years, where 
Chloe and Milly had been born and where a beautiful 
baby-boy had died, to give it up and off to the lofty splen- 
dors of King’s Leigh for two or three years at most! — to 
Margaret Fleming it had seemed a thing impossible. She 


166 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


loved the plain red-brick house in the common street far 
better than the park and the terrace at King’s Leigh. And 
to make these changes at the bidding of Miss Kettlewell, a 
woman who had scorned her and belittled her and insulted 
her ever since her marriage day! No, she could not do it, 
though she did not say so to Chloe and Millicent, who hung 
round her with fend anticipation of the pleasure and the 
glory that it would be to them to have their mother “doing 
the honors” of King’s Leigh. 

“But that is all nonsense; I shall not do the honors,” 
said Mrs. Fleming with her quiet serene smile. “'You are 
the ladies of the house, you two; you must take it in turns 
to entertain and to sit at the head of the table; I shall be 
one of yoiir guests.” 

There was a great outcry. “As if we should allow any 
such thing!” cried Milly. “No, your are our own little 
mother, and never a visitor! It is your home as well as 
ours; you shall be queen there as much as you are here.” 

“It would be no home to us if you were not in it, mother,” 
Chloe said; and Margaret’s eyes filled with glad and grate- 
ful tears as she realized that she was indeed beloved by her 
daughters even more than is usual with mothers. The 
contrast between their lives and that of their friend Fran- 
ces was impressed with double force upon her mind as she 
turned and met the eyes of their visitor fixed full upon her, 
with a troubled look in them that went to Mrs. Fleming’s 
heart. Frances had driven over to congratulate her friends 
on their good fortune and to spend the day. It was thus 
that she had been present during the discussion about the 
mistress-ship of King’s Leigh. 

Margaret divined all that was passing in Frances’s heart. 
She knew that it hurt the girl to see the caresses lavished on 
the mother by the daughters, that it smote her like a blow 
when Chloe said that King’s Leigh would be no home to her 
without a mother. Such pangs as these a lonely girl is bound 
to feel; but there was no bitterness in Frances’s pain. It only 
came home to her now and then that she had no near and 


AS REGARDS FRANCES. 


167 


dear relations in the world; that even her guardian could 
not supply the place of the mother who was dead, the father 
who had abandoned her in the hour of need; and at these 
moments she was sorrowful. Mrs. Fleming read the sor- 
row in her eyes, and went up to her and kissed her after- 
wards. 

“You must come and see us very often at King’s Leigh,” 
said Chloe, quick to read her mother’s meaning, and to of- 
fer balm to the wounded heart. “We shall treat you as one 
of ourselves, and you will come and gO' just as you like — 
it will be another home to you as well as Denstone.” 

“It is nearer to Denstone, than to the town,” said Milly 
with great satisfaction. “You can come in quite easily; 
you’ll not even need the carriage. What fun we shall 
have !” 

“Remember your poor Cousin Keturah, dear,” said Mrs. 
Fleming gently. “Be grateful to her while you are happy 
in what she has given you.” 

“Now isn’t that sweet of mother?” exclaimed Milly, when 
Margaret had moved away. “For Cousin Keturah always 
hated her and used to say horrid things about her, even to 
us, when we were too young to prevent her. And now 
she tells us to be grateful to her!” 

“Was Miss Kettlewell not friendly with your mother, 
then?” asked Frances in surprise. 

“No, indeed; she scarcely ever spoke to her. She looked 
down on mother’s family,” said Milly, with great candor, 
“which was absurd because mother’s family was just as good 
as hers, only Cousin Keturah happened to be rich and had 
once been engaged to a lord. But mother is so sweet that 
she would never let us say a word against Cousin Keturah — 
and of course, poor old thing, I don’t want to, especially 
now she is dead and has been so good to us. And it is not 
nice to talk against one’s own relations, is it?” 

“But suppose one’s relations were to be really bad? or at 
least such as one could not respect?” said Frances, with a 
suppressed vehemence which Milly failed to notice, and 


168 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Chloe to understand. “What would you do then? Sup- 
pose you could only speak well of them by telling lies!” 

“Oh, that would be dreadful!” cried thoughtless Milly. 
While Chloe more quietly observed — 

“One would have to consider the claim of loyalty and 
the claim of one’s own desire to keep clear of wrong- 
doing,” she said. 

“Ah, that is so ditlicult,” sighed Frances. Chloe did 
not undct-stand, but concluded that there was some story 
in Frances’s mind which she did not care to discuss. Of 
course there was a mystery about Frances — everyone knew 
that. But Chloe and Millicent were careful to ask no 
questions. They had always carefully avoided the subject 
of their friend’s early history. If Fiances wanted to tell 
them anything, they would be glad to hear it; if not, they 
would let it alone. 

But Mrs. Fleming, and Chloe also, were both conscious of 
the shadow that was visible in Frances’s beautiful eyes from 
time to time; they thought her more silent than usual, with 
a kind of pathetic appeal in her face which was a mystery to 
them. What had gone wrong with her? Something 
there must be; but Frances was not a girl whose confidence 
it was very easy to win. 

She was in reality undergoing a severe ordeal. Chloe 
and Milly had told her the whole story of Miss Wedder- 
burn’s behavior during Miss Kettlewell’s illness and at the 
time of her death; and they had not spared Miss Wedder- 
burn. Frances, knowing that Lavinia was her father’s 
cousin and bore the same name as herself, felt her face burn 
when she was told of Miss Wedderburn’s insolence, ingrati- 
tude and possible dishonesty. She shivered when she heard 
how Chloe had stood by and seen the woman’s pockets 
turned inside out and felt her clothes and examined her 
shoes. But this was told by Milly, below her breath; for 
Dr. Fleming had felt a little ashamed of the course he had 
taken and did not like it talked about; but Frances, little 
by little, heard it all, 


AS REGARDS FRANCES. 


169 


She had never liked her cousin Lavinia, for she still re- 
membered instances of that lady’s tyranny over her mother, 
whom Silas only half defended and protected; but she had 
a strong sense of Lavinia’s technical honesty, as it might 
be called; for she did not believe that Miss Wedderburn 
would secrete a piece of jewelry or try to appropriate her 
employer’s coin, or papers that would be valuable to herself. 
So when Milly whispered that old Miss Kettlewell had 
shrieked “Thief! thief! thief!” at Lavinia from her dying 
bed, Frances had turned sick and pale with disgust, and 
hastily bade Milly to tell her nothing more. 

She had formed a project, which now seemed next door 
to impossible. She had come to the Fleming’s house, 
meaning to tell Mrs. Fleming, and perhaps Chloe, of her re- 
lationship to Silas Wedderburn, and to ask them to help her 
in seeing him once again. She had thought of revealing 
herself to him, and of asking whether there were any way 
in which she might be of use to him. But now she felt that 
she could not say a word about it to the Flemings. Tell 
them that she was the kinswoman of this Lavinia Wedder- 
burn whom they were accusing, justly or unjustly, of mean- 
ness and ingratitude, to say the least? She could not do 
it; she must stand alone. And very much alone she felt 
just then. , 

Since Laurence’s ill-timed proposal of marriage, she 
had felt herself in some way cut off from him. He had 
been very kind tO’ her, very anxious that she should be 
happy; but she had lost the old sense of trust in his pres- 
ence, of confidence in his plan of life for her. And she 
liked less than ever to confess to him that she had moments 
of yearning for her father, in spite of the fact that he had 
behaved so cruelly to her; that she wanted to “belong” 
somewhere, tO’ have a recognized place among people of her 
own class, and not to feel herself a waif and stranger. 

“I would not have minded being poor,” she said to her- 
self. “I could have lived in that queer little red house of 
my father’s quite happily I am sure; I should have done ex- 


170 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


cellently for a poor man’s daughter. If I had known noth- 
ing else, I should have been quite content with chapel 
and sewing meetings and tea-meetings — all that my mother 
went through before me. I don’t care for big parties and 
dances and theaters one bit. If only I had somebody to 
care for me, as Chloe and Milly have!” — and a few tears 
fell silently down Frances’s cheeks, as she was driven back 
to Denstone in the brougham that evening after dinner. 
“But to get up and say before them all, ‘I am the cousin 
of the woman whom you despise; and my father is the man 
who was called a coward, for saving his own “valuable” life 
instead of that of his own child!’ — that would be terrible; 
that would be a degradation, which I don’t think I could 
endure. 

“And yet,” said the girl, with a great swelling of heart, 
“if my father needed me, I should be glad to go to him, 
whether he were rich or poor, bad or good. I never heard 
that a child should renounce its parents because they were 
not immaculate. It seems to me an odd way of honoring 
one’s father and mother. But what can I do ?” 

Her eyes traveled wistfully over the dark expanse of 
country through which the carriage was bearing her; but 
she found no answer to her question in the darkness 
through which she gazed. And presently she was stand- 
ing in the drawing-room at Denstone, smilingly replying 
to Laurence’s remarks, and answering Mrs. Lester’s ques- 
tions with the best grace in the world. It needed Mrs. 
Fleming’s motherly eye to see that anything was amiss. 

“I am sure that Frances is out of spirits,” she said that 
evening to her daughter Chloe. “We must think what we 
can do for her.” 

“It cannot be very lively for her at Denstone, I wonder 
whether Mr. Corbet would let her come to us for a time, to 
stay?” 

“It would not be a bad idea. You must ask him,” said 
the mother. 

Inwardly she wondered whether Frances were not en- 


AS REGARDS PRANCES. 


171 


grossed by some secret love-affair, of which the world knew 
nothing; and she ventured one day J:o sound Laurence Cor- 
bet on the subject. She thought that she said nothing to 
offend; but to her surprise, Laurence immediately grew 
very red, and seemed decidedly annoyed. 

“You do not imagine that Frances would do anything 
underhand, I suppose,” he said, a trifle haughtily. 

“Underhand! oh, dear, no. I thought you would know 
all about it, and that you could explain — ” 

“Explain! what is there to explain? Has she said any- 
thing to you?” 

“Not a word. My dear Laurence, don’t look so angry! I 
was only tr3dng to account in my own mind for her depres- 
sion — ” 

“Is she depressed?” 

“Her depression is unmistakable; and her health is suf- 
fering. She looks pale, and she has constant headaches.” 

“She never mentioned them to me.” 

“Ah, that is where the poor girl misses a mother’s eare,” 
said Mrs. Fleming. “Yon had better let her come and stay 
with us for a little while; I will look after her, and Tom will 
give her a tonic.” 

“A tonic for Frances! Why, she was always the bright- 
est, healthiest creature — ” 

“She is net bright just now,” said Mrs. Fleming, signifi- 
cantly; and Laurence was obliged to admit to himself that 
he had not heard Frank’s gay laugh of late, and that her 
face had been paler, her step more languid than of yore. 

“If she likes to come,” he said harshly, “I would not 
prevent her for the world. You would take good care of 
her, I know. Perhaps I have not been a fit guardian for 
her,” he added gloomily. “I don’t know how to deal with 
women — Frances is a woman now.” 

“And a very beautiful one,” said Mrs. Fleming, trying to 
make him more cheerful. “You will soon have to think 
about her dowry, Laurence, and interview her suitors — ” 

“Oh, I’ve done that several times already,” said Mr. Cor- 


178 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


bet, with great grimness of demeanor, "and I promise you 
they do not want to come a second time.” Then, under his 
breath, "Confound them!” 

"My dear Laurence,” said Mrs. Fleming, rather shocked 
by the muttered ejaculation, "do you not want her to 
marry?” 

"Oh, yes, I want her to marry,” said Laurence, sitting 
down, and defiantly sticking both hands into his pockets. 
"But you see, we don’t agree about the person — ” 

"Ah! I knew there was something of the kind. She 
wants to marry some one of whom you do not approve?” 

"Not altogether. No; I can’t find out that she wants to 
marry anybody. It’s the other way round.” 

"What! that you want her to marry some one whom she 
does not care for? Oh, Laurence! I should never have 
imagined that you would be so unkind.” 

"I am not unkind,” he said, in a tone of considerable irri- 
tation. "I assure you, I do not worry her about it. The 
fact is this, Margaret, — I might as well tell you and then 
perhaps you will be able to help me a little — at least, if you 
choose: — the fact is as regards Frances that I — I want her 
to marry me.” 

Mrs. Fleming scarcely knew whether she could believe 
her ears. 


LOVING AND LEAVING. 


173 


CHAPTER XX. 

LOVING AND LEAVING. 

Dr. Fleming brought home the news that Andrew Der- 
rick was going abroad. He announced it at luncheon, and 
added some words of admiration for Andrew’s father — ‘‘the 
most sensible man I know,” he said. He did not notice 
that Mrs. Fleming had furtively glanced at Chloe, and 
that Chloe’s cheek was pale. 

“Why sensible?” she asked, putting in a word to spare 
her daughter the necessity of any remark. 

“Well, old Derrick’s not a man of any education him- 
self,” said the doctor, cheerfully. “And yet he never 
grudges Andrew any advantages. Some men would have 
objected to his leaving England directly his Oxford life 
was over; but Derrick seems to think it quite natural and 
right. A fine old fellow! I hope Andrew will be worthy 
of his father.” 

“But why should Andrew go abroad?” said Milly, en- 
quiringly. “Has he any object in view? Because — if he 
hasn’t and if he is only going to amuse himself, I think it 
is very selfish of him.” 

“We cannot possibly judge, Milly, when we know so 
little of the circumstances,” said Chloe, lifting her eyes, 
and speaking with a faint touch of color in her cheek. 

‘“Milly is too hasty,” said Mrs. Fleming, with gentleness. 
“I hope Andrew will have a pleasant time. Chloe, dear, 
when are you going to invite Frances Corbet to stay with 
you?” 

Thus she glided away from a subject which she felt in- 
stinctively to be rather dangerous. Chloe had not said a 
word to her on the subject of Andrew’s attentions to her, 
but the mother’s eye had distinguished them, and was not 


174 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


altogether sorry that the young man was removing himself 
from the scene of temptation. 

Andrew Derrick was all very well — a clever young fel- 
low, and the son of a much respected and successful man; 
but not the sort of son-in-law whom Mrs. Fleming thought 
quite suitable. She was not an ambitious woman, but she 
would have been more than mortal if she had not hoped 
that Chloe would some day make a good, even a “great’’ 
marriage and blossom out into one of the great ladies of 
the land. She was beautiful enough for anything, her 
mother thought, looking at the tall, graceful figure, the 
shining waves of fair hair, the rose-leaf complexion and 
down-dropped, long-lashed gray eyes. Milly was pretty 
enough; but Milly was only pretty: she was piquante and 
attractive and amusing, but not beautiful, like Chloe. Mil- 
ly, Mrs. Fleming thought, would have suited Andrew very 
well; but Chloe ought to marry a man of higher social po- 
sition than the Kushton millers son. 

Yes, it was much better that Andrew should go away. 
So Mrs. Fleming thought when she came across her elder 
daughter standing beside a passage window, with a white 
face, and eyes that looked dreamily across the green mea- 
dows to the red roof of Derrick’s mill. She would not 
question Chloe, she knew quite well that it was Andrew of 
whom Chloe thought. She did her best to keep Chloe well 
occupied and as near herself as possible, but she could not 
prevent an accidental encounter, and the few minutes’ con- 
versation that the young people had together in the road 
between Rushton and King’s Leigh did not tend to make 
things easier for either of them. 

Chloe was walking over to King’s Leigh, where a good 
deal of alteration in furniture and household arrangement 
was necessary before the Flemings could come in. And 
Andrew — there was no particular reason why he should be 
upon that road at all; but perhaps it was because he hoped 
to meet some of his old friends there. It was a shady road 
in summer, with pleasant glimpses of green fields on either 


LOVING AND LEAVING. 


175 


side; but in late autumn, verging upon winter, when the 
leaves had almost all fallen from the branches, and the 
fields were damp, there was an impression of gloom about 
the scene which was far from being cheerful. 

Chloe, in mourning for her cousin, was not a particular- 
ly brilliant object in herself, but to Andrew it appeared as 
though she lighted up the whole landscape like a sun. They 
came face to face and shook hands, rather hurriedly and 
timidly, and then they made a series of conventional re- 
marks upon the weather; at the end of which, Andrew 
Derrick said abruptly: 

“You have heard I am going abroad, I suppose?’^ 

“Yes,” said Chloe, looking away. 

“Ah, she won’t even say she is sorry I am going,” 
groaned Andrew to himself.* Then, aloud, “It will be a 
good while before I come back. You will be settled at 
King’s Leigh by that time.” 

“I suppose so. You will come and tell us all about your 
adventures when you get back, will you not?” said Chloe, 
with a smile in which there was no heart. 

“I think I may be years away,” he answered. 

There was a little pause and then Chloe said softly: 

“Isn’t it rather hard on your father that you should be 
away so long?” 

“You mean I am selfish,” said Andrew, turning upon 
her. 

“No. I do not know why you are going. You have 
your reasons, I daresay.” 

“Very good reasons,” said Andrew, who was turning a 
little white about the nose and mouth, as some men do 
when their feelings are aroused. “I go because I want to 
keep my independence — I can’t trust myself if I stay. I 
shall do — what an honorable man would not do, unless I 
go quite away; and it is for that reason that my dear father 
does not object.” 

“But you must come back some time?” said Chloe, a red 
flush rising to her cheeks. 


176 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Yes, when the danger is over.” 

“But — when — ?” 

“When will that be? Do you need me to tell you?” he 
said, looking doggedly into her face. “When you are mar- 
ried; not before. I wish to God,” he said, looking aside 
and speaking with fierce emphasis, “that Miss Kettlewell 
had left her money to anyone but you.” 

“I am what I always was; money makes no difference,” 
said Chloe, with an effort that brought the blood in a rush 
to her sweet face. In saying it, she almost felt as though 
she had offered herself to him, and she trembled from 
head to foot. But the words did not convey so much to 
Andrew’s mind as they had meant to her. 

“You are the same, oh yes; I know you could not be 
changed,” he said hotly, “but you are above me; you are 
out of my sphere. It is better for us to be strangers.” 

Chloe’s slumbering pride arose. “As you please,” she 
said, quietly, and her voice sounded very cold. 

“I shall never forget you,” Andrew blundered on. “But 
the best thing I can do for you now is to keep out of your 
way. Only — if at any time you should want me; if you 
are in trouble, if you should ever be poor again — but how 
can you be poor? — you have only to send a word to me and 
I shall be at your side.” 

Chloe wished that she dared venture to say, “I want you 
now.” But is was too much to expect of a girl brought up 
as she had been — with all the refinement and maidenliness 
of a bygone generation, and no taint of the New Woman in 
her composition at all. She stood silent, with crimson 
cheeks and drooping eyelashes, and Andrew never guessed 
how wildly her pulses were leaping, nor how near she came 
at that moment to throwing herself upon his breast and 
begging him to stay. 

“I must say good-bye,” he said, suddenly. “Oh, why 
were you made rich?” he cried, in the bitterness of his 
lieart; and then he turned and went down the road towards 
Eushton, without further leave-taking; and Chloe pro- 


LOVING AND LEAVING. 


177 


ceeded on her way to Eling’s Leigh, with slow, miserable 
tears dropping down her cheeks. 

Now it was all over, she supposed. Andrew was gone 
and would never come back again — until she married. And 
she should never marry. She should care for no one ex- 
cept Andrew; and if he would not marry her because she 
was rich, she had it in her heart to give up all her wealth 
and live humbly and snugly until he came back to ask her 
to become his wife. But the tears flowed faster as she 
realized the impossibility of this state of things. No, he 
was gone, and she must make the best of it; but oh, how 
she hated those unwelcome riches that had parted her from 
the only man she could have loved! 

A few days later, she came across old Mr. Derrick in the 
street. Hitherto he had always had a smile and a kindly 
word for her; but now he only grunted when she said 
“Good morning,” and tried to pass her by. Some secret 
influence prompted her to detain him. 

“How are you, Mr. Derrick? Are we not having fine 
weather for the time of year?” she said, offering him her 
hand. 

He took it and let it go, then said, half sullenly. 

“Ah, it’s you, is it. Miss Chloe? Not forgotten me in 
your new grandeur?” 

“Why should I forget anybody whom I care for?” said 
Chloe, looking more pathetic than she knew, with the 
tears in her violet-gray eyes. 

“Ah, well! Riches make a difference.” 

“Not to me. Oh, Mr. Derrick, believe it; not to me.” 

The white-bearded, white-haired man glanced at her, 
and noted the quivering lips. He thought to himself that 
Andrew had been too hasty in his departure. 

“You know I’m all alone now,” he said, his voice soft- 
ening a little. “My son has left me.” 

“I know. I am very sorry.” 

“Are you. my girl?” he said, with sudden sharpness. 
“Then you’d better get him back.” 

12 


178 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


And concluding with something which sounded very 
like a snarl, the old man tramped away, leaving Chloe with 
the tears in her eyes and a strange, choking sensation in 
her throat. 

How could she get Andrew back? It was impossible — 
and the father knew it, too. She was almost indignant at 
the way in which they treated her. Had she not gone as 
far as she possibly could in the way of hinting her regard 
for him, her desire that he would stay? Was it not an 
absolute impossibility for her to do anything more? 

She made up her mind not to think of Andrew any long- 
er. But her pleasure in King’s Leigh was absolutely 
spoiled. She made her preparations for the new life with 
a curious absence of pleasurable emotion, and turned away 
without replying when Milly uttered Jubilant exclamations 
of delight. 

Milly’s star was in the ascendant. The Hernesdales 
made much of her, and it was evident to everyone that 
“Charlie,” otherwise Lord Heron, was wildly in love with 
her. Indeed he went so far as to begin to lay his proposals 
before Dr. Fleming; but Dr. Fleming cut him short at 
once. Milly? Why Milly was a child; he wouldn’t have 
her mind disturbed; Lord Heron must wait until she was 
twenty-one. What for? Oh, because it was better that 
she should see a little of the world and know her own 
mind — 

“I think she knows it now,” said Heron, with a burst of 
the sunniest laughter in the world; and then Dr. Fleming 
was rather angry and affronted, for no man likes to think 
that he is going to be robbed of his youngest child before 
she is out of her teens. It ended in an “understanding,” 
which was not to be called an “engagement,” but which 
came to much the same thing, for the two young people 
were constantly together, and everyone knew that Milly 
was the future Countess of Hernesdale. “See what money 
does!” reflected Chloe with considerable bitterness, when 
she paced the long terrace, and thought of the long lonely 


LOVING AND LEAVING 


179 


years before her, where she at King’s Leigh might grow 
into a second Miss Kettlewell. “All because I am rich,” 
she said to herself, forgetting to add — “All because An- 
drew is too proud to marry a woman richer than himself.” 

But although Andrew was proud, and although he was 
far away, he did not fail to ask his father for full accounts 
of Chloe’s doings, and for descriptions whenever he had 
seen her, of her appearance and of the scene in which they 
had met. And old Derrick did his best to satisfy his son’s 
unreasonable desires — for so they seemed to him — and to 
give him as much hope as possible. But since Chloe could 
not denude herself of her wealth, and Andrew would not 
marry her while she was rich, there seemed at present no 
chance of their coming to an understanding. 

Meanwhile, there was one silent watcher of the Flem- 
ings and their friends, of whom the Derricks took no 
count. They had seen and heard of Miss Wedderburn as 
Miss Kettlewell’s companion; they had been told of the 
annuity that she had inherited, and of the rude and un- 
friendly way in which she had behaved to the Flemings, 
but they knew no more. The scene which took place dur- 
ing the last few minutes of Miss Kettlewell’s life had not 
been made public; Rushton, in general, had no idea that 
after ten years’ faithful service Miss Wedderburn had been 
dismissed in disgrace. Neither had Silas Wedderburn, ex- 
actly, although he surmised something amiss. 

Miss Wedderburn’s annuity was to be paid to her every 
six months by the hands of a firm of lawyers. She did not 
seem to be grateful for the intimation; she sniffed audibly 
when reminded by her cousin of her obligation to Miss 
Kettlewell. And she contracted a curious habit, which 
did not tend towards good housekeeping, and irritated Mr. 
Wedderburn very considerably, of spending a great deal of 
her time at a certain passage-window, whence, as it hap- 
pened, she had a side view into Dr. Fleming’s garden. 

They had not yet made their change of residence, and 
as they went in and out, as they stood at the long dining- 


180 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


room windows or carried plants backwards and forwards 
from the conservatory to the house, Miss Wedderburn used 
to watch them with a set smile on her face which was not 
of a very agreeable nature. When they began to remove 
their goods to King’s Leigh, she watched them still more 
closely. Once she saw Mrs. Fleming, and Chloe, holding 
each other’s hands, walk for almost the last time, as it 
seemed, round the grassy lawn, as if reminding them- 
selves that their life in the old town-house was almost over, 
and they should walk there no more. 

“Don’t be in such a hurry to say good-bye,” Miss Wed- 
derburn hissed to them from the passage-window, although ' 
no one could hear. “You’ll be back again before long! 
Back with your happiness spoilt for ever. Back with 
tears and quarrels and worries and trials of all kinds. I 
shall sit here and watch till then. And then, when I have 
seen your troubles, I shall bless my own wits that helped 
me to outwit your malice. Miss Chloe, and the unspeakable 
folly of that madwoman, Keturah Kettlewell.” 

She smiled and kissed her hand to the mother and 
daughter in derision, being quite certain that she was not 
overlooked, and she was somewhat disconcerted when she 
heard Silas’s voice behind her. 

“What are you doing, Lavinia? You seem to be kissing 
your hand to someone. Are you not too old for these 
frivolities?” 

“Not to any person in particular, Silas,” said Miss Wed- 
derburn meekly. 

But she hated to be reminded of her age. “It was the 
old custom of kissing hands to the moon that occurred to 
me; I did it for luck.” 

“An accursed custom, practiced by idolaters,” said Mr. 
Wedderburn, with displeasure. “Never let me see such 
superstitious rites in my dwelling, Lavinia.” 

And Lavinia promised humbly that he should never see 
them again. 


PERFECTLY FREE. 


181 


CHAPTER XXI. 

PERFECTLY FREE. 

By the time of spring, the Flemings had settled down 
happily at King’s Leigh, and felt as if they had lived there 
all their lives. Dr. Fleming indeed spent a good deal of 
his time at the house in Rushton, but it was always a de- 
light to him to come back to the beautiful old rooms, the 
splendid terrace, the clipped yew-trees and climbing roses 
of King’s Leigh. Mrs. Fleming was thoroughly happy. 
Even if, as she sometimes said, she would have to turn out 
one day and go back to Rushton, it would still be a pleas- 
ure to know that she had lived in so beautiful a place and 
that it belonged to one of her daughters. At present it 
seemed likely that Chloe would be the ultimate possessor 
of King’s Leigh. 

“For, as the newspapers say, an alliance was contem- 
plated between Charles, Viscount Heron, and Millicent, 
younger daughter of Thomas Fleming Esquire, M. D. It 
did not sound like a distinguished alliance for Lord Her- 
on, until it was explained (and Lady Hernesdale went 
everywhere explaining) that Millicent Fleming was one of 
the co-heiresses, you know, poor old Miss Kettlewell’s heir- 
esses, the rich Miss Kettlewell, who once was to have mar- 
ried one of the Hernesdales and retired into obscurity when 
he died. And then everyone said how suitable the ar- 
rangement was, and congratulated the Hernesdales. The 
Flemings also received a due share of congratulations, and 
it became apparent to everyone — except perhaps Dr. Flem- 
ing — that there would not be a very long engagement. 

“The arrangement about King’s Leigh is so very nice,” 
Lady Hernesdale said to her intimates. “It is to be left 
to the girl who does not marry first, and thirty thousand 


182 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


pounds will be paid over to the girl who marries, in lieu of 
the house. Now, as Charlie does not want a house, and 
does want money, this extra thirty thousand, in addition to 
dear Millicenfs original fortune, will be most useful in- 
deed.” In short, as Dr. Fleming said, with a sort of toss 
of his head in the air, it were not for Keturah Kettle- 
well’s money, none of the Hernesdales would have looked 
at Millicent.” But Milly was radiantly happy in her love 
for Charlie Heron, as she still insisted on calling him, and 
no cloud seemed likely to dim the brightness of her sky. 
Early in the year. Lady Hemesdale carried her off to town, 
to show her a little of the world, she said; and the delights 
of a London season opened upon Milly’s wondering eyes. 
She enjoyed them all, with the gaiety of a sweet and un- 
spoiled nature; and neither vanity nor frivolity seemed to 
come near her. The only thing she sighed for sometimes 
was the presence of her mother, or of Chloe. But Lady 
Hemesdale turned a deaf ear to any hints about Chloe. 
She knew that the elder daughter of the Flemings was 
twice as beautiful and would make three times as much 
sensation as Milly; and she was desperately afraid that 
Chloe would marry first, and make over King’s Leigh to 
Millicent. “I wish Charlie would marry her to-morrow 
and free us from the fear of that incubus,” she said, almost 
plaintively, to her husband. 

‘‘Well, I don’t know that I should describe King’s Leigh 
as an incubus,” he said with a laugh. “It’s a very beauti- 
ful incubus at any rate.” 

“I am practical; I look at the main chance,” said Lady 
Hemesdale, severely, “Charlie does not want King’s Leigh 
and he does want that thirty thousand pounds.” 

“Well, we can’t force it on,” said Lord Hemesdale. “It 
would look as if we thought of nothing but the money.” 

“So we do,” said the wife roundly. “If Milly Fleming, 
the country doctor’s daughter, had not a half-penny, do 
you think that Heron would be engaged to her at the pres- 
ent moment?” 


PERFECTLY FREE. 


183 * 


“We are all very worldly, I am afraid,” said the Earl, 
shaking his white head. “But poor old Keturah’s money is 
doing some good at last, if it makes those .two young people 
happy.” 

Lady Hernesdale felt a little impatient; but as things 
were turning out so well she concluded that she could put 
up with her husband’s sentimentality. 

And Milly would not be driven. The least hint of pres- 
sure about her marriage made her restive, especially if it 
came from Lady Hernesdale. “I don’t want to be mar- 
ried yet,” she would say, rather stiffly. “My father says I 
am quite young, I ought to enjoy myself a little first.” 

Then to Charlie: “Oh, yes, my dear boy, I daresay I shall 
enjoy myself a great deal more when I am married and 
have you all to myself; but I can’t help being a little nasty 
to your mamma, though I don’t mean it, when she talks in 
that pitying way to me, as if I had never seen or known 
anything all the days of my life. Indeed, Charlie, I have 
had a very happy life, and I love my mother and father 
and sister so much that you must not expect me to want to 
leave them in a great hurry.” 

“Perhaps you would rather I removed my troublesome 
self altogether,” said Charlie, who was not angry, but just 
on the verge perhaps, of becoming so.” 

Whereupon Milly turned upon him the most bewitching 
smile in the world. “You wouldn’t like it, really, if you 
thought I didn’t love my own people, would you?” she 
asked; and Lord Heron, with a reluctant laugh would own 
that he should be disappointed if he found that she was 
wanting in natural affection. 

“I know what it is,” said Milly. “Lady Hernesdale 
wants me not to have King’s Leigh; and thinks that Chloe 
will marry before me if we don’t take care; but she is 
wrong. Chloe will not marry for some time yet. Don’t 
tell your mother what I say.” 

“Why won’t she? Is she engaged to some one? — ” 

“Oh, no, no; but I know— 


184 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


'"What do you know? Tell me, Milly. I am fond of 
Chloe and should like to hear about her.” 

“There’s really nothing to tell, only I think I know 
whom she likes, and who likes her — ” 

“Who is it?” 

“You mustn’t tell. You won’t? You promise? Then, 
it is — Andrew Derrick.” 

“Eh? But — Andrew’s a splendid old chap, but isn’t it 
rather — rather — a come-down for Chloe?” 

“What? when he’s a splendid old chap! How mercen- 
ary you are, Charlie. However, there’s no fear, or no hope, 
of its coming off. Andrew has gone round the world to 
get out of Chloe’s way now that she is rich; and unless a 
second Miss Kettlewell would leave him a hundred thous- 
and pounds or so, I don’t suppose he will ever look at her 
again.” 

“And she — does she care?” 

Milly seized a marguerite from a blue jar that stood on 
a console beside her, and began to strip it of its petals. 
“Un peu — passionement — pas du tout!” she said, repeat- 
ing the old French charm; then she flung the flower down 
and turned her face away. “Don’t ask me that,” she said 
in a lower tone. “Poor Chloe!” 

Charlie put his arm round her. He liked to see her in 
this softened mood. He was wise enough to know that the 
girl who loves her sister and her parents is all the more 
likely to love her husband, too. 

“He’ll be well enough off when his father dies, you 
know. Not equal to her in fortune, still he’ll have a good 
independent income.” 

“Well, he may think better of it,” said Milly, doubting- 
ly, “but if he is so awfully proud and independent, per- 
haps he won’t think it enough.” 

“He might get a good appointment, wouldn’t that stand 
to him?” said Heron, thoughtfully. “It would give him 
a position and all that, you know. But everybody says in- 
fluence isn’t what it used to be. Why shouldn’t he go into 


PERFECTLY FREE. 


185 


Parliament and make a splurge, as the Yankees say? You 
see, it’ll all come right in time, Milly. Who told you 
about it, little woman? Chloe?” 

“Oh, no, how could Chloe speak of it?” 

“I thought you women told each other everything?” 

“Indeed, we don’t. But we have ways of guessing that 
I think ‘you men’ don’t understand. Nobody has told me 
anything. And yet I see it all — I know it all — ” 

“Then it’s just possible that you may be wrong?” 

“I’m not wrong,” said Milly firmly. “It’s no use com- 
forting yourself with that theory. As if I didn’t know my 
own sister!” 

Lord Heron laughed and gave up the argument. But 
he did not forget the things he had been told, and men- 
tioned to his father that Andrew Derrick was a clever 
and meritorious young man (“our side, tool”) who might 
be invaluable if he had a seat in the House, or a position 
in which his great talents could be turned to account. And 
although the Earl shrugged his shoulders a little over Her- 
on’s recommendation, he bore it in mind. 

During the spring months that Milly spent in London, 
Chloe was pursuing a very quiet and uneventful course at 
King’s Leigh. She read a good deal, she walked and talked 
with her mother, she visited the poor. When it was pro- 
posed to her to go up to town for the season, she shrank 
from the idea and refused it unhesitatingly. The only 
thing that she herself seemed to desire was a period of com- 
plete tranquillity. It was almost to please her mother 
rather than herself that in the month of April she asked 
Frances Corbet, as she was still called, to spend a fort- 
night with her. 

Frances had been leading a quiet life also, but perhaps 
it was not so peaceful as that of Chloe. Laurence had al- 
ways congratulated himself on having brought up a per- 
fectly sane, sensible, matter-of-fact young woman, whose 
nature, although he thought it a trifle cold, would preserve 
her from many of the troubles and trials of most women’s 


186 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


lives. But of late, Frances had passed out of his ken; and 
he had scarcely discovered the fact that it was not until he 
ceased to understand her that he fell in love with her. As 
long as her mind and brain were open to him, as a child’s 
to her best friend, he was interested but not much moved; 
when they closed round her developing nature as the pet- 
als of a rose fold themselves round its flowing heart, he 
began to be unquiet, curious, almost jealous of her re- 
serve. She drew herself more and more away from him as 
time went on, and while treating him with affectionate 
courtesy, ceased to render the old tribute of a child’s whole- 
hearted love. And he did not like the change. 

Then, when he had been ill-advised enough to make her 
an offer of marriage, he found that things were worse than 
ever. He had frightened her, alienated her. They never 
could be to each other what they had been before. The 
relation of guardian and ward sank into insignificance. 
Laurence had never dared to give her the old paternal sa- 
lute since the day that he had changed her view of him 
by asking her to be his wife. He said angrily to himself 
sometimes that he had no desire for that kind of salute. 
Either Frances must kiss him because she loved him, or 
she need not kiss him at all. And sometimes he wished 
himself back again in those happy years when she had 
been to him like his own child. What were they now? A 
man and a woman, cooped up together in the same house; 
he the host, she the guest, with a strange woman always 
between them as chaperon, for the sake of the proprieties. 
Laurence began to think that it was too much for him to 
bear, and that he must himself contrive some method of 
getting out of the way. Accordingly, he went to London 
several times and accepted one or two invitations to coun- 
try houses, and began to absorb himself in county and po- 
litical business. He did not know how sorely Frances felt 
the change. Instead of long mornings devoted to study 
or amusement in his companionship, instead of rides and 
drives and walks together, she had to put up with the 


PERFECTLY FREE. 


187 


somewhat uninteresting society of Mrs. Lester, who, with 
all her best endeavors, could not match Laurence as a com- 
panion or a friend. Frances soon became very weary of 
this s^te of things, and hailed with relief the invitation 
from Chloe to stay for a week or two at King’s Leigh. 

“You would like to go?” Laurence said, without looking 
at her, when she had handed the note to him. 

“Yes, I should like it. If you do not object,” she added 
dutifully. 

His brows contracted as he gave her back the note. “You 
are a perfectly free agent, Frances. Accept the invitation 
by all means.” 

“Thank you,” she said; and turned to leave the room, 
when suddenly he spoke again. She had ventured into the 
library to show him Chloe’s letter. 

“Milly Fleming is in town,” he said. “I was thinking 
that you would like, perhaps, to go to London after Easter 
and see a little of — of — society. I have an old friend in 
London, Lady Brabazon — I know she would be most hap- 
py to have you and to take you about.” 

Frances glanced at him, from her halt midway between 
the writing table and the door. 

“Mrs. Lester?” she said, inquiringly. 

“Mrs. Lester would keep house here. I should be run- 
ning backwards and forwards, paying visits and so on.” 

Frances looked down; she seemed to have a difficulty in 
replying. 

“Oh, don’t go if you don’t wish,” said Laurence, irrita- 
bly. “No one wishes to force you into anything. You 
forget that you are perfectly free to do what you choose.” 
He took up a newspaper as he spoke. 

“Am I?” said Frances, quietly. 

The tone made him look at her. Her lip was quivering, 
her eyelashes were heavy with tears. He dashed his 
newspaper down and stood up. 

“What can I do or say?” he exclaimed, walking hurriedly 
towards her, and then stopping short as if he dared not 


188 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


proceed. “Frances, you wring my heart. Why do you 
reject every proposal I make for your happiness? Why 
don’t you see that I want you to do what you like best? 
Be frank — be the Frank I used to know,” he added, alter- 
ing the phrase, “and tell me simply what you wish.” 

The tone carried more weight than the words. The 
tone was eager, passionate, as of a man who suffered more 
than he knew how to bear. There was reproach in it, too. 
Frances listened, struggled with herself, and made answer, 
rather faintly: 

“I would rather not go to London, then.” 

“Oh. Very well.” He let his hand drop to the table 
with a heavy sigh, as though he were oppressed. But she 
did not seem to hear or see. 

“And I should very much like to go to King’s Leigh.” 

“Certainly.” 

“And while I am there — you won’t mind so much if I 
am staying there and not here, will you? I want — I want 
— very much to hear my father preach in the chapel, and 
— perhaps — to speak to him.” 

Laurence looked straight at her, still leaning on his 
hand. “You wish to make his acquaintance? To tell him 
the truth?” 

There was a pause before Frances could wind herself up 
to say reluctantly: 

“I wish to feel myself free to do so if I like.” 

“Oh, free!” said Laurence, contemptuously, moving 
some books away with his hand. “You know you are per- 
fectly free to do just as you choose.” 

“No — not unless — you consent. I know you wish me 
not to tell him.” 

“The time has gone by when my wishes can be said to 
have much effect on your actions, I am afraid. You are 
old enough to judge for yourself.” 

Then she raised her eyes and looked at him. They were 
not filled with tears now; they were dry and shone with a 


PERFECTLY FREE. 


189 


steady light. She spoke clearly and strongly. He had 
never heard such a tone from her before. 

“You are unkind,” she said, “and unfair. I care more 
about the fairness than the kindness. You have perhaps 
a right to be no longer very kind to me; but you ought to 
be just. You taught me to love justice and truth; I am 
only asking for both.” And then, without waiting for 
his reply, she turned and swiftly left the room, leaving 
I.(aurence utterly confounded, but only half repentant, af- 
ter all. 


190 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A BARGAIN. 

Frances did not appear at luncheon, and Laurence would 
have been impressed with the uncomfortable sensation of 
having spoken and acted like a brute, had not Mrs. Lester 
remarked that the Vicar’s wife had called that morning 
and had carried the girl off to early dinner because there 
was so much to be done in preparation for a Mothers’ 
Meeting Tea. Mr. Corbet shrugged his shoulders and 
tried not to look supercilious. 

“So she preferred a Mothers’ Meeting to seeing me 
again,” he said to himself illogically. And then he went 
for a long, solitary ride, from which he did not return until 
it was time to dress for dinner. And he wondered whether 
she would remain at the Vicarage all the evening, and did 
not dare to ask; but he felt a sensation of great pleasure and 
relief when he saw her in the drawing-room, which he 
entered as the gong sounded for dinner. If he had vague- 
ly hoped that she would be contrite and distressed, he was 
disappointed; for Frances bore herself with remarkable 
cheerfulness and gave some racy accounts of the sayings 
and doings of the mothers. 

“It seems to have been quite uproariously gay in fact,” 
said Mr. Corbet, dryly. 

Frances shot a swift question out of her dark eyes at 
him, and he felt condemned and miserable. But she an- 
swered with her usual simplicity and directness. 

“It was not uproarious gaiety: you could hardly fancy 
Mrs. Willoughby encouraging any kind of uproariousness. 
But we were all quite cheerful — and — ^good-humored.” 
This word was added in a lower key, and Frances went on 
very quickly as if she had not meant it to be overheard. 


A BARGAIN. 


191 


‘‘Old Mrs. Corby amazed ns by guessing nearly every rid- 
dle that was asked; and you know what a stock of riddles 
the Vicar possesses. Some of the women played La 
Grace on the lawn; it was rather funny to see them; they 
were so excited over it; and Mrs. Robinson, the washer- 
woman, you know, proved herself excellent at croquet.” 

“I hope they would not catch cold,” said Mrs. Lester, 
anxiously. “Was the grass dry, my dear?” 

“Oh, yes, quite dry, thank you. There were rugs and 
mats everywhere for people who were sitting still, and any- 
one who felt cold might go inside the house. It was such 
a warm, sunny day, too, I think you would have enjoyed 
it, Mrs. Lester. I am so sorry you were not there.” 

Laurence caught himself thinking what a brave, bright 
manner and face she had, and how she herself carried sun- 
shine wherever she went. A gleam of it even came into 
Mrs. Lester’s unimpassioned countenance, as she answered: 

“Thank you, my dear, but I think I was better at home. 
You know how susceptible I am to cold; and I am nearly 
sure that there was a touch of east in the wind. Now am 
I not right, Laurence? Was there not a touch of east?” 

“North-east, I should say,” replied Laurence rather 
grimly; and Miss Frances opened big eyes at him until she 
realized that his reply was of an entirely allegorical na- 
ture, when she blushed suddenly and looked down at her 
plate. 

Each now felt that a shot had been delivered, and it 
was perhaps time to call for terms of peace. So that 
Frances was not altogether astonished when, after dinner, 
Laurence spoke to her just as she was going out of the 
room. “Could you come back for a minute or two? I 
just want to arrange with you about going to King’s 
Leigh.” 

She came back silently, while Mrs. Lester swept onward 
to the drawing-room and stood by the fire. 

“Won’t you sit down? We can’t talk comfortably if you 
are standing,” said Laurence, putting his hand on the back 


192 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


of a chair. She seated herself immediately and then he 
also drew a chair to the wood fire, which was pleasant to 
see, although the day had been so warm. 

“On what day did Chloe ask you to go?” he said, wast- 
ing no time on preliminaries. 

“Next Tuesday. This is Thursday.” 

“And — for how long?” 

“She says something about a week or two. I should 
think she means ten days or a fortnight.” 

“Yes. I hope you will enjoy yourself.” 

She looked up at him and seemed to expect more; there 
was something in his tone not easy to understand. 

“When you come back, I think I shall probably Iia\ f' 
vanished. I have an idea of seeing Russia, and of then 
going on to India. My old wandering instincts have re- 
vived, you see. I don’t know when I shall get back.” 

Frances’s lips moved, but she did not speak; she had 
grown very pale. 

“The house here is at your disposition,” Laurence went 
on, “and if you feel inclined to go to London, either Mrs. 
Lester will chaperon you, or you can go to Lady Braba- 
zon’s — or perhaps with the Flemings or the Hernesdales. 
You can do exactly as you please. I think you will be 
comfortable; if there is anything I can do to make you 
more so, you must let me know.” 

“Comfortable!” The word had an indignant ring as it 
fell from Frances’s lips. 

“Well, what have I said that is wrong? I seem doomed 
to-day to say things you don’t like,” said Laurence, with 
gloomy brows. 

“I did not mean to be rude,” said Frances, moderating 
her indignation. “It only seemed to me that you thought 
I had everything I wanted so long as I was ‘comfortable’ in 
the sense of having a nice house, pretty rooms, horses and 
carriages, good things to eat and drink, and so on.” 

“Most people,” said Laurence, dryly, “use the adjective 
to signify these things.” 


A BARGAIN. 


193 


“But you always used to say that they were not the 
things that mattered?” 

“They matter very considerably to a girl.” 

“Because she is supposed to be unable to do without 
them? She cannot work for herself?” 

“Because she is less strong than a man, and needs to be 
taken care of and looked after.” 

“And this is how you take care of me and look after 
me,” said Frances quickly, “you who said you would do it 
—by going away and leaving me here— with Mrs. Lester.” 

She had scored a point. Corbet frowned and looked 
down. 

“I never thought of going away until — ” 

He did not finish the sentence. But Frances finished 
off for him. 

“Until I refused to be taken care of just in your way! 
Then I say that you are breaking our bargain, Laurence — 
Cousin Laurence.” Her voice softened and broke upon 
the old familiar name. “What you have said to me all 
these years has been that when I was grown up I could be 
your companion, your friend. I could be more to you as 
a woman than a child — ” 

“Don’t I say so still?” 

She went on as though she had not heard. 

“You used to describe the life that we should lead, here 
at Denstone, how I should help you to get to know the 
people on the estate, and learn to know things that would 
be useful in managing it; and that in the evenings I should 
sing to you and read to you, and make your life cheerful 
and happy — here at Denstone — ” 

“And you agreed to it all,” said Laurence in a low voice. 
“Yet, when I ask you to do it in the only effectual way, 
you — refuse.” 

“That was not in your mind when you used to talk to 
me,” said Frances quickly. “It is not like you to use 
these subterfuges. Cousin Laurence. You used to talk as 
if — as if — you were — so much older and would always take 


194 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


care of me as you did when I was a child. You spoke even 
— ” her voice faltered and grew lower— “of giving me 
away some day in marriage — ^you did not speak as you 
speak now-a-days; you did not want-— the impossible.” 

“I don’t see why it should be impossible,” said Laurence 
doggedly. “But I speak only as I am guided by circum- 
stances, Frances. In those old days, I never thought of 
you as anything but a child. I felt much older than you — 
much older than I feel noAv, although I confess that I am 
too old a man for you to love. It has been only since I 
have seen you as a woman that I feel as I do now. And 
when I am face to face with the difficulties that beset you, 
and will beset you all your life if somebody does not inter- 
vene — the impossibility of giving a detailed account of the 
way in which you came into my hands, the scandalous 
tongues of women, the propinquity of your relations, who 
are not very pleasant people, really Frances, when I con- 
sider all this, I think that I am doing my very best for 
you when I ask you to be my wife.” 

“I have no doubt that I ought to be very much obliged 
to you,” said Frances, with curling lip, “but I do not mean 
to marry any man because he thinks it would be ‘best for 
me.’ ” 

“Not even if he loves you?” 

“There has been no question of love in the matter,” 
said Frances, coldly. 

“That is where you mistake, Frances. That is just 
where I did not make myself clear — in my very anxiety 
for your welfare. I do love you, I love you with all my 
lieart and soul.” 

She looked at him for a moment, and bit her lips. Then 
her eyes fell before his. 

“It comes late,” she said, with a delicate inflection of 
satire in her voice, which cut Laurence to the quick. 

“I have made many a mistake in my life,” he said, rising 
from his chair and standing before her, “but never a great- 
er one than I made when I let you think that I asked you 


A HARGAIN. 


195 


to be my wife without letting you know that I asked it for 
my own sake, and not for yours. I was fool enough to put 
the material side first. Perhaps, when I began to speak, 
I Avas hardly conscious of the reality, the depth of my love. 
It seems to me more that every fiber of you is mine, Fran- 
ces, as if I myself, body, soul and spirit, belong to you. 
It is you who keep me away from you and I cannot bear 
any longer to be in your presence and feel myself cut off 
from you: it is as though my veins had been opened and 
my life was ebbing away. You won’t understand the feel- 
ing, but it’s a real one, I can tell you. So, if I go away, it 
is not because I am unkind, but because I love you so much 
that I can’t bear to see you and hear you, and know that 
you are in the house and that you don’t care for me — one 
brass farthing.” 

“Oh,” said Frances, covering her face with her hands, 
“this is worse. I had rather you had not loved me — than 
this.” 

“Well, in some ways, so would I,” said Laurence. “But 
we can’t choose our burdens, you see. Fate has laid this 
one on me, that I should love you with all my heart — you, 
as a woman, not as a child — and that you should not care 
for me — as I said, one — ” 

“That is not true, Laurence. Indeed, that is not true. 
I love you — as a child loves — ” 

“Yes, yes, I understand. I am your guardian, and you 
have always been kind and loving to me in that relation- 
ship! I wonder what would have happened if I had come 
to you as a stranger: should I have had a better chance? 
One cannot tell.” 

“I am sorry,” Frances said, in a choked voice; and then 
she could say no more. For some minutes, also, Mr. Cor- 
bet did not speak: then at last he said, softly and earnestly: 

“There is one thing I want to ask you, Frances. You 
do believe now, do you not, that I love you? I only ask 
you to believe. It will be a comfort to me, if you will say 
that you believe me.” 


196 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Yes, I believe,” said Frances, looking up with a pale 
face and wet, shining eyes. “But I have something to ask 
you, too.” 

“Yes.” 

“You must not go away.” 

“Do you want to make me suffer?” 

“No, but we must take a different path. It is I who 
will go away, and leave you free to live your own life.” 

“And you think that would make things any better? 
And pray where would you go?” 

“I have not thought it out yet. I should find some 
place. Perhaps — I have been thinking — that I ought to 
go to my father and help to make his house happy — ” 

“Frances!” 

“And at any rate, this I am sure of, and solemnly vow, 
that if you go abroad, instead of staying here and attend- 
ing to your duties — for you have duties here, Laurence, I 
have seen enough of the place to be able to tell you that — 
if you go abroad to Eussia and India as you said, I will 
walk straight out of your house directly you have gone, and 
will earn my own living and never see your face again. 
For I shall know that you are a coward, that you have 
shirked your duty; and you brought me up to look upon 
a coward as the vilest thing on earth.” 

“If I stay, then, will you consent to give up this idea of 
going away from Denstone? I’ll live at the Grange, or in 
London — anywhere, so that you are not deprived of a 
home.” 

Frances shook her head. “I will make no bargain,” she 
said. “I only tell you what I will do, if you go away.” 

He hesitated. “You are hard on me, Frances.” 

“It is not hard to want you to do your duty,” she said, 
her beautiful face glowing as she raised it from the hand 
on which she had been resting it. “You are strong; you 
can do it if you try. And I shall not be here to hinder 
you.” 

“If not here, you will be in safe hands — in the house of 


A BARGAIN. 


197 


someone whom I know and trust,” said Laurence, almost 
violently. 

“Certainly, that is most likely. But tell me, you will 
stay?” 

“Well — I will stay — if you — ” 

“No ‘if s’,” she said quickly. “You will stay, of course, 
as I knew you would. And at present I am going to the 
Flemings. Perhaps they would like me to stay on with 
them for a time. Afterwards, we will consider. And you 
must not be angry with me if I say that I am going to see 
my father.” 

“Seek him if you like. I don’t think it will be much 
pleasure to you.” 

“And I must use my own discretion as to whether I tell 
him or not?” 

“Of the relationship? I suppose so. I cannot oppose 
your wish. But I will ask you to remember all it means. 
Do you feel anxious to have that woman who has behaved 
so badly to the Flemings, claiming cousinship with you? 
Do you want to be known henceforth as Frances Wedder- 
burn, the Dissenting minister’s daughter?” 

“I don’t know. I sometimes think truth is best,” said 
Frances, mournfully. 

“Well, at any rate, don’t let them inveigle you out of 
any money.” 

“Money? I have none to give.” 

“Nonsense: yes, you have. You have six thousand 
pounds in the funds, made over to you legally some years 
ago. But you had better not say so to Miss Wedderbum.” 

Frances renroached him and thanked him in a look. 


198 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

DOCTOR FLEMING’S SUBSCRIPTION. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Derrick, “the chapeFs doing fine. I 
don’t deny it. Wedderburn’s a good man — a very good 
man. He’ll fill the new premises quite as well as he’s filled 
them in Zion Lane.” 

“Ay?” said Dr. Fleming, with an interrogative turn, “so 
your subscription list is full, too, is it?” 

“Yes, sir, yes. Very well filled. Are you going to give 
us a fiver, doctor? You said the other day that we were 
doing good work in the town.” 

The doctor’s eye glistened. He put his head on one 
side and surveyed Mr. Derrick attentively. 

“I said so, did I? But I’m a church and state man, you 
know. How do you account for my talking in that way, 
Derrick? I’m sure I didn’t say it to you?” 

“Xo, no: you said it to Andrew, just before he went 
away, alluding to those cases of diphtheria in Friarsgate, 
you know, doctor. Wedderburn stuck to his duty like a 
man.” 

“Yes, and all the more creditable to him, seeing he was 
frightened out of his wits about catching it,” muttered 
the doctor to himself. Then, in a louder tone, “Well, 
didn’t Andrew tell you how I backed my opinion?” 

“Eh? no, he didn’t. Don’t go, doctor” — for Fleming 
was quickening his pace. “Don’t go. Tell me what you 
mean. Did you send a subscription?” 

“Look in your list, man!” cried the doctor, flourishing 
his stick as he walked onward, more quickly than Derrick 
could follow him, even on a bright spring day. “Look in 
your subscription list.” And off he went, leaving Mr. Der- 
rick rather inclined to grumble. 


DOCTOR FLEMING’S SUBSCRIPTION. 


199 


‘‘We ought to get our subscription list,” he said to him- 
self, as he wandered round the space marked out for the 
foundation of the new chapel, and marked the heaps of 
stone and rubbish which were accumulating in its neigh- 
borhood. “I could then send it printed to some of the 
county people round about, and interest them in the 
building. Did Fleming really mean that Andrew had got 
something out of him? Well done, Andrew!” But why 
had he never mentioned the fact to him? He thought he 
might as well go round to Wedderburn’s at once and talk 
to him about getting out the list. 

He made his way rather slowly, for he was decidedly 
rheumatic, to the minister’s door, and was admitted to the 
minister’s study. Miss Wedderburn looked over the bal- 
usters at him as he entered the house. If she were Silas’s 
wife, she said to herself, she would follow and learn his 
business as a matter of course. It was a shame that she 
was not permitted to do such a thing, all because she was 
only his cousin and not his wife. As to the claim of an 
ordained ministry and the inferiority of women, Lavinia 
Wedderburn never thought of such a thing. 

As she stepped about her household duties, she found 
that she had to go into a large linen cupboard which was 
situated behind the study. And when there she made a 
curious discovery. There had once been a small window 
in the linen cupboard, opening into the study. The glass 
had been removed, and the aperture was covered with a 
square of glazed glass calico. This, again, was situated im- 
mediately behind a bookcase, and through the thin cover- 
ing all voices in the study could be distinctly heard in the 
linen cupboard, which was large enough to allow a person 
to stand with the door shut, close to the shelves and im- 
mediately beneath the opening. Miss Wedderburn was 
delighted. It was almost as convenient as Miss Kettle- 
well’s hanging wardrobe had been. Now she would be 
able to learn the secrets of those persons who weakly .com- 
mitted them to Mr. Wedderburn’s hearing; now she could 


200 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


get a mastery over Silas such as she had never achieved be- 
fore. But she would not let him know the secret of that 
opening in the wall: she would keep that to herself. And 
if anyone found her in the linen cupboard, what could any 
one say? She was only tidying the linen, getting out 
clean towels or putting away the table cloths — she hadn’t 
been there a minute. Miss Wedderburn has learned cau- 
tion: she did not mean to be caught again. 

She listened now — eagerly. But she heard nothing but 
generalities, calculations of church expenses, remarks about 
subscription lists. Curiosity caused her, however, still to 
linger, and she heard something at last which sounded in- 
teresting. Interesting because it made her cousin falter 
and stammer, as if he were confused. Mr. Derrick’s loud 
voice was as distinct as possible, but Silas Wedderb urn’s 
was very far from clear. 

“We’ll get out the list as soon as possible, then, Wed- 
derburn. Let me see, we’ve been a bit unbusiness-like 
hitherto, have we not? We must have a general meeting 
and see to things.” 

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Wedderburn said, rather nervously, 
“anything you please, Mr. Derrick, of course.” 

“You see, all subscriptions ought to come to me as treas- 
urer,” said Matthew Derrick, rather more loudly. “And 
they seem to have been paid here, there, and every'where.” 

“Alden, the grocer, told me he had received some,” said 
the minister, “and asked whether he should send them on 
to me — or to you.” 

“To me — to me, of course. You told him so, I hope.” 

“I said something of the kind. I will step round and 
see him again. I made a memorandum at the time, but — 
my memory is so bad — ” 

“Never mind: look it up and let me know another time,” 
said Mr. Derrick. “We shall muddle our accounts sadly 
if this sort of thing goes on. You ministers are not good 
business men, eh, Mr. Wedderburn?” 

“We are not, indeed. I have often lamented my ig- 


DOCTOR FLEMING’S SUBSCRIPTION. 


201 


norance of business matters. I do my best, of course, but 
my own accounts are sometimes in — in — a little confus- 
ion,” said Mr. Wedderburn, with a propitiatory tone in his 
voice which drove Lavinia nearly wild with exasperation. 

“Ah, that is a pity. Looks bad in a minister, you know,” 
said Mr. Derrick’s keen, penetrating voice. “You are no 
doubt keeping a strict eye on the subscriptions, however? 
The best way would be always to pay them in immediately 
to my account at the bank, wouldn’t it?” 

“Certainly, Mr. Derrick,” — with a touch of offense. “I 
trust that you do not consider me guilty of any careless- 
ness in that respect — ” 

“Oh, good Lord, no!” said Mr. Derrick, in quite a flur- 
ried tone. “My dear sir, how could I think of such a 
thing? I should be very sorry to suggest anything of the 
kind. These ideas just passed through my mind as I was 
walking along: chiefly because I met Fleming, you know — 
Dr. Fleming — ” 

“Dr. Fleming,” Silas repeated, in a toneless voice. “Yes, 
sir?” 

“Fleming’s a good fellow,” Mr. Derrick went out of his 
way to observe. “A very good fellow. No prejudices, but 
gives to church or chapel wherever money is really re- 
quired. He gave me to understand that my son Andrew 
had asked him for a contribution — ” 

“I remember! I remember! Your son mentioned it to 
me when he came to say good-bye,” said Mr. Wedderburn, 
hastily. 

“Ah, that’s right. Now, then, you can tell me how 
much it was,” said Mr. Derrick cheerfully. “Fleming 
wouldn’t let it out. Andrew gave it to you, I suppose?” 

“No, I think not,” said the minister, in a tone of ex- 
treme perturbation. “I — I think not, Mr. Derrick. I 
think I should have remembered. Unless it were a small 
sum — I have a list of small sums here which I can consult. 
Mrs. Harvey gave me two shillings in coppers the other 
day, and Bloxam the shoemaker brought three three-penny 


202 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


pieces. These are the contributions which come to us 
from our poorer members, and which, I must say, I like 
to receive.” 

“Quite so: I like ’em, too. The widow’s mite, and all 
that,” said Mr. Derrick, approvingly. “It shows that their 
heart is in the right place, does it not? But about this 
subscription of Fleming’s, Mr. Wedderburn — ” 

“Perhaps it was paid to Mr. Alden. I will inquire, and 
send you a note.” 

“You’re sure it wasn’t paid to you, then?” 

“Sir!” said Mr. Wedderburn with such sudden fierceness 
that Mr. Derrick drew hack and apologized. 

“I didn’t mean any offense, I’m sure — I beg your par- 
don, Wedderburn,” said the old man in a kindly tone. “It 
was only a casual question. Don’t trouble about the mat- 
ter now. I dare say I interrupted you in the middle of 
your sermon, now, didn’t I? You’ll just send me the note 
and pay the money in to my account some day next week: 
to-day’s Saturday, you won’t have time to do it to-day. 
Good-bye, my dear sir: don’t you get mixing yourself up 
over accounts: they’re not in your line, and preaching is. 
Let’s have a good rousing sermon to-morrow night, that 
will stir them all up: that’s what we want at Zion Lane.” 

And with a resounding clap on the ministers shoulder, 
Mr. Derrick said good-bye and made his way out by the 
front door. He passed Alden’s shop as he went down the 
street and hesitated a moment as to whether he should or 
should not go in and interview the grocer on the subject 
of the subscriptions; but there were a good many people in 
the shop, and he thought it might be difficult to get hold 
of his brother deacon at that time. So he went home and 
employed his leisure afternoon by writing his weekly letter 
to Andrew, in which he detailed his meeting with Dr. 
Fleming, his interview with Mr. Wedderburn, and his own 
dissatisfaction with the unbusiness-like way in which the 
subscriptions were collected. It was just as well that he 
did write that afternoon, he thought, for he awoke next 


DOCTOR FLEMING’S SUBSCRIPTION. ^03 

morning in the throes of his old enemy the gout, and some 
days elapsed before he felt able to write again. Dr. Flem- 
ing came and went, but for a week or more, chapel matters 
passed out of Mr. Derrick’s mind: he had a more engross- 
ing matter to dwell upon. 

Miss Wedderburn had by this time managed to insert 
a penknife and cut two slits in the linen covering of the 
window, so that she could make a triangular opening when- 
ever she desired. At first, it seemed as though this open- 
ing would be of little use to her, except in so far as it en- 
abled her to hear more distinctly, but she soon found that 
by extending it a little, she reached a spot where the books 
in the open shelves were considerably lower than the oth- 
ers, so that a space was afforded through which she could 
look straight into the study. 

Her cousin’s demeanor, on his return from accompany- 
ing Mr. Derrick to the door, considerably surprised her. 
First of all, he went to the window and opened it cautious- 
ly; then leaned out, as if he were watching some one down 
the street. Finally he drew his head back, closed the win- 
dow, and ejaculated something: Miss Wedderburn thought 
that it was “Thank God!” 

She watched him closely. His face was white and damp 
with perspiration. His lips worked strangely. Lavinia 
could not imagine what was the matter with him. Sud- 
denly he sank into the great easy chair, buried his face in 
his hands and let it sink almost to his knees, then burst 
into a terrible fit of tears. Lavinia watched him for a 
moment, with no sensation of sympathy: rather with a cer- 
tain disgust. She watched him while he threw himself on 
his knees and gasped out prayers and cries for mercy and 
help to the God in whom he believed. But even this sight 
did not melt her. All that she felt capable of experienc- 
ing was a sour contempt for the man who had managed his 
affairs so badly as to be obliged “to steal from the chapel 
funds.” For this was how Miss Wedderburn phrased it 
to herself. 


204 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


But she was terribly alarmed lest any one should sur- 
prise him in this attitude of self-humiliation. If he were 
seen, sobbing out words of prayer upon his knees, would 
not all Rushton know in a day or two of his piteous plight? 
For to her, all signs of penitence or humility were tokens 
of weakness. She had never lived in any atmosphere 
where they were respected or admired. Strong, self “as- 
sertive” assurance of salvation was the fashion in Zion 
Lane. The tenderer virtues flourished only in by-ways 
and dark corners. 

Miss Wedderburn abandoned her watch, locked up the 
linen cupboard, and planted herself in the hall, so that no- 
body should get to the study door without being inter- 
cepted. She made an excuse that certain knobs and pegs 
in the hall wanted rubbing and polishing, and she devoted 
herself assiduously to this work for the next hour and a 
half. Several members of the congregation called; but she 
turned them all away. She said that it was quite impo.ssi- 
ble for them to see Mr. Wedderburn that morning. 

The minister did not know of that self-appointed watch 
when he came out, white and weary, at half-past one 
o’clock, expecting dinner. He had no idea that any one 
had heard his conference with Mr. Derrick, or could draw 
evil conclusions from it if they had. Lavinia gave him a 
sharp look, and wondered whether he meant to confide in 
her. She decided that he did not. Well! give him a little 
time. It was quite possible that he would tell her as much 
as she wanted to know, whenever she chose to turn the 
screw. At present she was contented to let him make his 
sermons in his study, and not disturb him with any refiec- 
tions on his past or predictions for his future. In fact she 
was extremely considerate towards him for the rest of the 
day, furnishing him with choice meats and drinks, and ad- 
vising him to take all care of himself, for she did not think 
he looked very well. Whereat Silas winced a good deal, 
for he particularly wanted to look well and seem at his 
ease just then. But never had his sermon seemed to him 


DOCTOR FLEMING’S SUBSCRIPTION. 


205 


more difficult to write. As to the long extempore pray- 
ers that he was in the habit of making, he felt that his want 
of unction would be peculiarly remarked in them; and he 
went so far as to make notes for them as well as for his ser- 
mon — a thing which he had always condemned very se- ‘ 
verely in other ministers when he had known of their do- 
ing it. 

Miss Wedderburn did not generally go twice to chapel 
on Sunday, but on this Sunday she presented herself at 
both morning and evening service. She had some curios- 
ity to hear what Silas had got to say. 

The morning sermon was peculiarly dry and uninviting. 
It was “a good Gospel sermon,” as the people said; but no- 
body was impressed by it. “You must wait till the even- 
ing if you want to hear one of our minister’s great efforts,” 
said one wheezy individual to another in Lavinia’s hear- 
ing, as they walked out together at the chapel gates. La- 
vinia smiled bitterly to herself. Yes, she wanted to hear 
one of the minister’s “great efforts” too. If all she be- 
lieved were true, it would be an “effort” indeed. 

She was in her accustomed place at night. The “long 
prayer” was very long indeed, and very full of references to 
the public events of the day. Old Bloxam, the shoemak- 
er, once said that Mr. Wedderburn’s long prayer was as 
good as a newspaper. “Summed up the events of the past 
week and presented ’em to the Lord, in what you might 
call a masterly manner,” he observed. But it was gener- 
ally thought that Bloxam was a little too free in his ob- 
servations. 

When Mr. Wedderburn announced his text. Miss Wed- 
derburn gasped. What had induced him, she wondered, 
to select those words? “Be sure your sin will find you 
out,” he read. She felt almost faint. 

And, as he read the text for the second time, she saw 
him also start and grow pale and put his hand to his throat, 
as if disturbed by some new and overwhelming sensation. 
Was it because he had seen her, his cousin, in her seat, that 


206 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


he was startled? Surely not. Miss Wedderbum cast a 
furtive look behind her, and was startled in her turn. For 
not two pews away, she distinguished the fine pale face, 
the beautiful dark eyes and proudly poised head of Fran- 
ces, Mr. Corbet’s ward, and — though Lavinia did not know 
it — the daughter of Silas Wedderbum. 


THE MINISTER’S SERMON. 


207 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MINISTER’S SERMON. 

Frances had not achieved her purpose without some dif- 
ficulty. She had Laurence’s consent, certainly, but she 
had also to obtain Mrs. Fleming’s sanction, and this was 
somewhat difficult to do, without hurting the feelings of 
the doctor’s wife. Mrs. Fleming was a good church- wo- 
man, for one thing, and had never been within the walls 
of a meeting-house in her life. Then she had been ser- 
iously annoyed by the reflections cast on her husband by 
Miss Wedderburn, and she naturally identifled that lady 
with her cousin the minister. ‘‘My dear, you may depend 
upon it, they are both alike,” she said. “Miss Wedder- 
burn used to be always going to see her cousin, and she is 
now an inmate of his house. It is said that he is going to 
marry her. That shows that he approves of her astonish- 
ing conduct to Dr. Fleming and Miss Kettlewell. Per- 
haps you have not heard the details? — ” 

“Yes, I think I have,” said Frances, faintly. “But Mr. 
Wedderburn is said to be a very good preacher, I think.” 

“In his own line, yes,” answered Mrs. Fleming, with 
coldness. “But he is not a clergyman, you see, and I 
really do not like — 

“Dear Mrs. Fleming,” Frances said, with tears in her 
eyes, “please let me go. It is not simply from curiosity: I 
have a real reason. Mr. Corbet said I might go if I liked. 
He understands why — ^but I’m afraid I must not tell you — 
yet.” 

“I don’t wish to prevent you, dear, if you have a real 
reason for going,” said Mrs. Fleming gently, though with 
a touch of coldness, by which Frances felt more wounded 
than she could well express. 


208 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


For if her friends objected to her simply going to hear 
Mr. Wedderburn preach, what would they say when they 
knew that she was his daughter? Frances supposed in her 
own heart, that they would never speak to her again. And 
yet her soul rose in revolt against their judgment. She 
might be kin to the Wedderburns, and yet utterly different 
from them in nature and spirit: she might surely rise above 
the temptations to which her father seemed especially ex- 
posed. For herself she could say that she did not think 
she had any inclination to cowardice; she was quite sure 
that she could not be ungrateful and crafty and unscrupu- 
lous like Lavinia Wedderburn. But her relationship to 
them might very possibly put an end to her friendship 
with many persons whom she had learned to love. And 
yet she felt that she could not help it: something was 
working within her which was stronger than herself. 

“I do not quite know how to manage it,” Mrs. Fleming 
said, with that tinge of coldness which was so unusual with 
her. “I hardly like the carriage — suppose we send to 
Eushton for a cab?” 

‘‘Yes, let me have a cab,” said Frances eagerly. “Then 
you will have no responsibility, and I can just go my own 
way.” 

But again Mrs. Fleming demurred. She was still hes- 
itating when Dr. Fleming walked in and by a few decided 
words cleared all the cobwebs of doubt away. 

“I’ll take her in my brougham,” he said. “I’ve got to 
go into the town that night — to see Mr. Derrick, who is 
laid up with the gout. I ^an drop Frances at the chapel, 
and arrange to call, or send the brougham for her, when I 
come back.” 

“You think it is right for her to go?” said Mrs. Fleming. 

“Eight? Why not? Wedderburn is worth hearing. I 
would go with her myself if I hadn’t to see old Derrick. 
Wedderburn’s not a bad fellow, although his relation is a 
bit of a fraud: we mustn’t always judge people by their re- 
lations, you know, Margaret.” He would have been 


THE MINISTER’S SERMON. 


309 


amazed to know the passion of gratitude towards him which 
sprang up in Frances’s breast, as he said the words. 

On Sunday evening, therefore, Frances was driven in 
the doctor’s brougham to the door of the chapel in Zion 
Lane. She was at once shown into an empty green-lined 
pew, exactly fronting the pulpit, and was told in an audi- 
ble whisper that it was “Mr. Derrick’s seat.” Mr. Der- 
rick’s big-print Bible and hymn-book lay on the ledge be- 
fore her. She took down the hymn-book, and felt her 
fingers tremble as she turned over the pages. They were 
all quite familiar to her. It was the book that she had 
used as a child. 

She was almost frightened to feel the place so homelike 
to her. She had not entered a chapel of this kind since 
shd was nine years old; but the sight of its bareness and 
ugliness — for they really did want a new chapel in Zion 
Lane! — brought back the memory of places strangely like 
it that she had seen in her childish days. The straight 
brown pews, the worm-eaten pulpit and reading desk. The 
little railed-off space which did duty for a chancel, the one 
round stained glass rose window which relieved the monot- 
ony of the yellow washed, walls and arched windows of 
plain glass — she had seen them all before. She remem- 
bered this kind of place better than the new-built fanes 
of modern days — the “churches” with tapering spires, and 
much varnished open seats, red cushions and incandescent 
light. When the minister came in, in black gown and 
white bands, she almost uttered a cry. He was so like a 
picture of him that hung in the background of her mind — 
a picture of him standing before an Australian audience 
and electrifying them by his words — that she had great dif- 
ficulty in keeping the tears from her eyes, the queer hys- 
terical choking from her throat. 

His voice made things even worse for her. It was still 
mellow and musical, and as he read aloud the hymn that 
they were about to sing, it fell on Frances’s ears with sin- 
gular power. She felt as if in a curious waking dream. 

14 


210 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


When she closed her eyes she could believe herself a littla 
girl, in the pew beside her mother, with that mother’s hand 
clasped in her own. Together they had listened to that 
resonant musical voice: they had nestled closer to each oth- 
er when they bent their heads before the book-board for 
the twenty minutes prayer. Frances felt as if her mother 
were beside her now. She was conscious of a strange new 
tenderness towards that long-lost father of hers; as if the 
mother who had loved him were pleading with her for the 
man who had failed his child — perhaps his child’s mother 
also — in the hour of need. For the first time, Frances 
knew that she could forgive him his desertion of her — if at 
least he cared for her forgiveness. 

She saw him start when his eye rested upon her, and 
wondered whether he guessed that she was his child. Then 
she saw Miss Wedderburn glance at her, and she averted 
her face. Looking at her father, she saw him gradually 
recover himself, and she understood, that he might have 
been — for the second time — startled by a likeness, but that 
he had by no means recognized her. For if he had recog- 
nized her, how could he so composedly have given out his 
text? — that text which must surely carry its warning to 
his own heart as well as to his congregation — “Be sure your 
sins will find you out.” 

It was a very telling sermon, rising here and there into 
real excellence. Up to a certain point it both softened and 
excited Frances. She was carried away by the old appeals, 
which seemed so vaguely familiar to her — ^the cry to the 
unconverted to repent and come back to a God of Love, 
who could be a God of Vengeance, too: it moved her as it 
had moved her in her childish days. She heard a girl 
sobbing behind her: she felt almost inclined to sob now. 
If Laurence Corbet or Dr. Fleming had known the state of 
nervous agitation into which the services had thrown her, 
they would bitterly have regretted the fact that she had 
come. N 

But Silas Wedderburn himself undid his work. 


THE MINISTER’S SERMON. 


211 


He was a sensational preacher, depending a good deal 
on the inspiration of the moment for his most emotional 
flights; and on this night of all nights, his mind reverted to 
the scenes which he had witnessed on board the Attaman, 
on the night when it was burnt to the water’s edge. He 
painted the awful scenes in the strongest colors; he de- 
scribed the volumes of smoke, the reddening sea and sky, 
the frenzied rush for the boats, as only an orator could de- 
scribe them. He pictured the cry of captured souls, whose 
sins had found them out in the hour of danger and of 
death; and he pointed his descriptions by heartrending 
questions as to the state in which his hearers would per- 
haps have been found, had they been, like himself, upon 
that burning ship. 

Frances listened, and all the softness, all the affection, 
died out of her. 

She could not easily understand the disposition of a 
man to whom all experience became in the long run liter- 
ary material. Such a disposition is often seen in the peo- 
ple who write books; but it is less common in a preacher. 
It often conduces veiy much, however, to the success of an 
orator. And it is probable that the orator’s relations who 
know him and love him, are reconciled to the fact that the 
deepest sorrows, the greatest failures, of the man’s life are 
put under contribution to make his speech or his sermon 
more convincing. With certain regulations, it is good that 
a man should use his personal experience in this way. But 
under the circumstances, Frances found her father’s graph- 
ic description of the shipwreck very revolting. 

Whether it was there or not, she could not help suspect- 
ing a desire to magnify himself in his hearers’ eyes. From 
his account, one would have fancied — although he did not 
exactly say it — that he had been the one calm, dignified 
figure on board the burning ship, that he had prayed with 
the penitent, exhorted the sinner, calmed the fears of those 
who were afraid. And what was the reality as Frances re- 
membered it? A pale, distorted countenance, a voice 


313 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


shrill with fear, an attempt to escape which was rudely 
countervailed by those who were more brave than he, an- 
other attempt, more cowardly still, which would have cost 
his daughter her life had not Laurence Corbet intervened 
— these were the pictures that his glowing w-ords called up 
to Frances's mind. And her father was preaching about 
it, and drawing his model from it, and vaunting himself 
as a brave man, while his daughter listened and seemed to 
hear an echo of his agonized, cowardly cry — “I must es- 
cape Mine is a valuable life .... I will not die.” 

‘Tossibly, by some curious chain of association, it was 
the sight of Frances’s face which had set the minister upon 
this theme. But an unlooked for termination of the ser- 
mon now occurred. Mr. Wedderburn again caught sight 
of Frances’s face, framed by a background of darkness 
where the lights had been turned low. And he knew it 
again. 

Freed from conventional surroundings, it was the child’s 
face still. There were the pale, clearly-cut features with 
their pensive look, the large intelligent hazel eyes, rather 
deeply set, the soft locks of loose hair on the forehead, the 
curved mouth and strong, determined-looking chin. The 
truth flashed suddenly across Silas Wedderburn’s mind. 
And he stopped short, in an agony of self-abasement and 
fear, which put an end to his eloquence as surely as a bomb- 
shell would have done. 

He faltered, turned very white, and after one or two in- 
effectual attempts to proceed, he declared himself ill, and 
begged one of the deacons to bring the service to a close. 
Then he sat down in the pulpit, and put his face in his 
hands. Frances saw him no more. 

She did not hear the hymn nor did she rise for it. She 
sat far back in the shadov^ with her veil drawn over her 
face, hoping that no one could see the tears that came 
dropping one by one down her pale cheeks. But she did 
not cry because she was moved by tender memories of the 


THE MINISTER’S SERMON. 


313 


past, or hopes of a father’s love. She wept to think that 
she had a father of whom she was ashamed. 

She was still crying when she got into the brougham 
and found Dr. Fleming waiting for her. It was a relief 
to hear his cheery voice: it formed a wonderful contrast to 
the mellow, vibrating tones to which she had been listen- 
ing, but she felt that the brusque accents covered a true 
heart. He did not attempt to conceal that he knew she 
was crying. 

“Come, come,” he said, “that place has been too much 
for you, dear. I don’t wonder at it. The atmosphere is 
perfectly fetid: and Wedderburn has the reputation of up- 
setting women’s nerves. Ah, you don’t like me to say that, 
do you? I shall have to administer something out of my 
little case here, if you cry like that, you know. Yes, it is 
purely physical: I don’t suppose you are under conviction 
of sin, as my friend Derrick would say. You must not go 
to these hot, crowded places any more. Mr. Derrick is 
really very ill: I begin to wish that Andrew were at 
home.” 

And so on, until he had talked the girl into a quieter 
state, in which she was quite ready to be kissed and car- 
essed by Chloe and her mother, and put to bed with not 
even one reproachful “I told you so!” 

But she clung repentantly to Mrs. Fleming as she said 
good-night, and tried to stammer out something like an 
apology, “I am very soriy I went,” she said, “and I think 
you were quite right to advise me not to go. But I had to 
go. I can’t tell you why.” 

“Never mind, my dear: go to sleep and forget it all,” 
said Mrs. Fleming, too compassionate to maintain her an- 
ger for one moment at the sight of so much grief. 

“I shall never forget it;” was the somewhat bewildering 
response, and Frances spent the night in dreaming of the 
well-known face, the well-known accents of her father as 
he preached unending sermons to countless congregations, 
to all eternity. 


214 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


She was very much ashamed of her own emotions next 
morning, but as nobody alluded to them she did her best 
to forget them all. A half-formed project which had pre- 
viously floated vaguely through her mind, now, however, 
took form and shape. She was resolved to see her father, 
to speak to him, if only to beg him not to divulge the re- 
lationship. And for that purpose she must go to Rushton 
by herself and call at the minister’s house. 

Chance favored her. She drove with Mrs. Fleming to 
Rushton and was left at the doctor’s old house while Mrs. 
Fleming went to see a friend. She had fully an hour to 
spare. And so it came that one afternoon in the week 
after the Sunday, when she had heard her father preach, 
she found herself knocking at her father’s door. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 




CHAPTER XXV. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Mr. Wedderburn did not look as though he were pre- 
pared for a visitor. In fact Frances had some difficulty in 
obtaining admission, for Miss Wedderburn was out, and 
the maid had received orders to let no one enter. By dint 
of mingled persuasion and firmness, however, Frances got 
inside the house, and then, having asked for the door of 
the study, she boldly knocked and entered. Jane was left 
feebly protesting that it wasn’t her doing, and that she 
never dared to go against Miss Wedderburn’s orders, but 
by that time Frances had closed the door. And a querul- 
ous voice came out of the dimness saying: 

“Who is it? What do you want?” 

Frances stood for a moment in amazed and gathering 
concern. Her father must be very ill, she thought, to 
nurse himself in this way. . She had grown accustomed to 
men who liked out-door exercise, who did not care very 
much whether it were wet or fine, who despised small ail- 
ments and did not know what a headache meant. Hence 
her surprise when she found her father, who certainly 
looked big and strong even if he were a trifie too fleshy and 
too pale, lying back in a great arm-chair with his feet sup- 
ported by a high foot-stool and covered with a soft rug; a 
smell of eau-de-cologne and other medicaments in the air: 
the window blinds drawn, and a fire in the grate making 
the room unduly warm for the time of year. Outside, the 
spring sun was shining, the spring breeze blowing and the 
gardens were gay with daffodils, and the orchards with 
blossoming trees. It struck Frances that, unless a man 
were really ill, it would be more wholesome to go out in 


216 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


the fresh air and sunshine, rather than bask over the fire in 
a luxurious arm-chair. 

“I beg your pardon,’’ she said, her clear sweet voice pen- 
etrating the heavy air like a sunbeam sword from the world 
outside. “I did not know that you were indisposed. Your 
servant told me that you were busy. And as my business 
is — perhaps — important, too, I thought that I had better 
walk straight in.” 

Mr. Wedderburn had struggled to his feet by this time, 
divesting himself as well as he could of the soft rug that 
Lavinia had tucked round his legs, and revealing the fact 
that he was clad in an elaborately quilted dressing-gown 
lined with cherry-colored satin, and that his feet were 
thrust into worked slippers which were only too evidently 
the gift of some ‘dady of the congregation.” He had a 
beard, and did not exhibit the uncared-for appearance of 
men who omit to shave, but he had also an untidy and ruf- 
fled look, as of one whose toilet had been slurred over as 
much as possible that morning. 

“I am very sorry,” he said, his eyes not distinguishing 
the face and figure of Frances, for she wore a hat that 
came rather far over her eyes and a thick veil — precautions 
against recognition which she had deemed it best to take, 
and which quite concealed her identity from Mr. Wedder- 
burn: “I am very sorry that you should find me in this 
state. A severe nervous headache to which I am subject 
caused my cousin to persuade me to take a nap — not that 
[ am in the habit of sleeping in the afternoon — ” 

There was a slightly annoj^ed tone in his voice, which led 
Frances to say quickly: 

“There is no need for you to mind my seeing you, or 
knowing that y6u were taking a rest. Don’t you remem- 
ber me? I thought that you remembered me last night. 
I hardly thought that any further introduction would be 
necessary. In fact I imagined — ” and she looked down as 
she spoke — “that you would be expecting me.” 

“My child!” said Mr. Wedderburn, with a start. He 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


217 


opened his arms wide and seemed to expect that Frances 
would run into them. But she remained standing beside 
the table, and he was obliged to let them fall again. ‘‘jVIy 
child! Is it indeed my child?” 

“It is Frances,” said the girl, shortly. “I do not know 
whether you have forgotten my name.” 

“Forgotten!” He made a quick step towards her, but 
again stopped short, breathing heavily as though he were 
much agitated. “Could I ever forget my own child? My 
little Frances?” 

“Not very little now, I am afraid,” said Frances, with 
something like a smile in her voice. “Shall I draw up the 
blind a little way? You cannot see me in this light, and 
I cannot see you.” 

Mr. Wedderburn would have demurred if he could, but 
the wonderfully quiet and self-possessed manner of the girl 
took away from him all power of opposition. He was not 
very well pleased when a flooding light revealed his dress- 
ing-gown, his slippers, his cup of tea at one elbow, a brandy 
flask beside it: the room, he felt, was dirty and untidy, and 
he himself not quite equal to the occasion. He protested 
a little, in a weak, ineffective fashion. 

“If you would step into the drawing-room for a mo- 
ment,” he said, “I would Just put on my coat and come to 
you there. This room is my own particular den: it is not 
a fit place in which to receive ladies.” 

“I should not think that I count as a ‘lady’,” said Fran- 
ces. “When your own daughter comes to see you, is it 
necessary to receive her in the drawing-room? y^nd I 
have only a few minutes to spare: I think it would be 
better not to waste them.” 

She put up her veil and let him see her face, which was 
rather pale just then, with a somewhat scornful curve of 
the beautiful lips. She looked very handsome, as Silas 
realized with a sudden contraction of the heart, exceed- 
ingly out of place in his study. Her dress was simple, but 
it was perfectly made; and to Mr. Wedderburn, who did not 


218 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


understand the force of details, it seemed superb. His lit- 
tle Frances, as he called her, had passed out of his sphere. 
But he tried to regain his failing courage and to claim a 
father’s rights. 

“You are my daughter, then?” he said. “My daughter, 
back from the dead — whom I never expected to see again. 
When I caught sight of your face last night, it seemed to 
me as though one had risen from the grave. Come, my 
child, you have not yet greeted me: come, let me kiss you 
and thank God that you have returned to me from the 
dead.” 

Frances shivered slightly, but advanced towards him and 
allowed him to kiss her forehead and to hold her hand. 
He placed her in a chair beside him, and sank once more 
into his own luxurious lounge — a small thing, but one 
which his daughter could not help thinking characteristic; 
Laurence would not have been content until she was in- 
stalled in the best seat in the room. But her father 
thought it quite natural that he should sink into those 
cushioned depths and hold her hand, while she sat upright 
on an uncomfortable cane bottomed chair at his side. She 
said to herself with some confusion that she supposed she 
had forgotten how to behave like anyone’s “little girl.” 
Yet this was what her father was now calling her. 

“Well, my little girl,” he was saying, “and what provi- 
dential concurrence of circumstances have brought you in- 
to this part of the world? You knew my name, of course, 
and sought me out? But — is it not some time since I 
caught a glimpse of you in Rushton? I thought then that 
it was a chance resemblance, but I must say that it upset 
me very much. And last night was quite too much for 
me — quite too much. But we will not speak of that. I 
saw you, I think, with one of the neighboring gentlemen 
of this place — Mr. Corbet, I think, is his name — ” 

“Yes, and I go by his name,” said Frances, “I am called 
Frances Corbet now. I used to see Miss Wedderburn very 
often at Miss Kettlewell’s, but she did not remember me.” 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


219 


Silas’s brow darkened. “My dear child! ‘Miss Wed- 
derburnl’ That has a curious sound from your lips. Sure- 
ly you recollect your cousin Lavinia?” 

“I recollect that I disliked her very much,” said Fran- 
ces, with composure, “and that I was very much afraid of 
her. Now, of course, I am not afraid; but I dislike her as 
much as ever.” 

Mr. Wedderburn prudently shelved the question. 

“And how is it,” he said softly, “that you have been so 
mercifully preserved until this day? Where have you 
been in the interval since we parted?” 

“Do you not remember Mr. Corbet?” said Frances, look- 
ing at him. “Do you not remember the gentleman on 
board the Attaman who was talking to us when we first 
heard the alarm of fire, and took care of me afterwards 
when — when you — deserted me?” 

She spoke deliberately, still looking him full in the face. 
Her hand had lain in his until now; but he dropped it at 
once and started up, moved out of all exterior calm by the 
accusation she brought against him. 

“How dare you speak to me in that way?” he said. “You 
— my daughter? A mere child at the time. What could 
you know of my actions or the reasons for them? You 
give an odious turn to your allusions, and one which is ut- 
terly unjustifiable.” 

“I was a child — that is true,” answered Frances. “But 
I remember every detail of the scene. And Mr. Corbet 
stood by and heard and saw it all. But for him I should 
have been left on the burning steamer and died a misera- 
ble death.” 

“He says so, no doubt,” said Silas Wedderburn, sinking 
down again into his chair. Crouched^ together in shame 
and dismay, trembling from head to foot, he looked a mere 
mountain of quivering flesh, without manliness or courage 
in its composition. Frances looked at him strangely, but 
listened while he spoke with the rancor of a small-minded 


220 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


man. “He says so; he has made you believe me a monster, 
I have no doubt; he has made you think him a hero, while 
I am left out in the cold!” 

“He risked death for me: I know that now, though I did 
not quite knov^ it then,” said Frances. “You can scarcely 
say that you did that.” 

“I did more,” said the man, drawing himself up into 
some semblance of dignity and self-respect, “I sacrificed 
my daughter to the claim of duty. Like another Iphigen- 
ia she should honor the father who would do so much for 
the cause he loved.” 

Frances looked at him with surprise. “Was it so neces- 
sary for your cause that you should be saved?” 

“Absolutely necessary. At least I thought so then. As 
it happens. Providence decreed that my plans fell to the 
ground. But if they had been carried out — and I had no 
reason then to suppose that they would not be — it would 
have been seen that I was right in saving myself and my 
papers at all costs.” 

“I can understand that, in some cases,” said his daughter 
meditatively. “Some men might well think their own 
lives more valuable than that of a child. Perhaps you 
did. Perhaps you were right. But oh, no, I can’t feel 
that it was right,” she said, with sudden heat. “It is hard 
to say so of myself, but father, you should have given me 
the chance of life with you. You took my place — a child’s 
place — in the boat. You do not expect me to have much 
regard for you after that?” 

“I had hoped that you — you would have understood,” 
said the man, bending his head under her reproaches, but 
speaking with a touch of sullenness. “I see that he — Mr. 
Corbet — has done his best to maintain a grudge against 
me — 

“It is no grudge,” said Frances quickly, “but it has been 
a bitterness to me all my life, to think that a stranger should 
be willing to peril his life for me, when my father would 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


221 


not. Sometimes I have been sorry I lived to know it. And 
sometimes I have thought — and this is one reason why 1 
wanted to see you to-day — that perhaps I was not your 
child, that you had only adopted me, perhaps, and did not 
feel towards me as fathers do feel for their children .... 
was it not so? I could forgive you for everything, if only 
I were not your own child.” 

Silas shaded his eyes with his hand and rocked himself 
gently backwards and forwards. Perhaps there was a 
struggle in his mind. But if there were, it was truth that 
won the day. 

“It is no use trying to get out of it in that way,” he said 
huskily. “I am your father — ^yes: and your mother is bur- 
ied in Australia. I do not admit that I failed in my duty 
— no. It was a sacrifice, a great sacrifice — ” his voice grew 
mellower and more unctuous as he spoke — “but one which 
I undertook at the voice of duty, and which, especially as 
you are safe, my dear Frances — I shall never regret.” 

“I am glad you are satisfied with yourself,” said his 
daughter dryly. “What you say makes it all the easier for 
me to tell you why I came. I had heard of you at Eush- 
ton: I longed to speak to you, thinking I might perhaps 
obtain some explanation of what has troubled me all these 
years! 1 even wondered whether it was not my duty to 
give up my home at Mr. Corbet’s, and come back to you 
here. At last I thought that I would hear you preach — I 
thought — I could judge by that. And, as it happened, 
you chose to describe that terrible night of the shipwreck 
— the flames — the cries — the horror of it — oh, you did it 
well!” cried Frances, rising involuntarily to her feet, and 
clasping her hands. “There was only one detail which 1 
found mistaken — the picture of yourself as the self-sacrific- 
ing minister of Christ, when I remembered you only as a 
selfish coward, trying to hustle women and children out of 
your way in order that you might save your own valuable 
life!” 


222 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


She turned away from him and hid her face in her hands. 

“How dare you preach in that way?” she said in a stifled 
voice. “Are you not afraid of bringing down God’s judg- 
ment upon your head?” 

“Frances! Frances! Is this the way you should speak to 
your father — your own father, erring though he may be?” 
said Silas Wedderburn. His face was pallid as ashes, and 
his hands shaking like aspen-leaves. Frances dashed down 
her hands and looked at him. 

“Ho, it is not the way,” she said, “and I am an undutiful 
daughter perhaps to say these things: but it is your fault, 
father, and not mine. If you had cared for me, I should 
have loved you, too. But I must tell you what I came for, 
I wish to say that I do not desire to be known by any 
name but that of Corbet: that I do not want to be called 
Wedderburn or to be known as a relation of yours. Nev- 
ertheless, I shall always be ready to do anything I can for 
you, if there is ever any occasion. I will even let you 
know where I am from time to time, if you care to hear.” 

“If my daughter does not choose to acknowledge me, 
we had better be strangers altogether,” said Mr. Wedder- 
burn, with his grandest air, and a wave of his white hand. 

“Very well,” said Frances. “It was only if you were 
ever in want of anything that I could give — I should al- 
ways be ready then. But let me ask you one thing in re- 
turn, father: don’t preach about that shipwreck, don’t 
make much of it in the pulpit again. To hear it almost 
makes me doubt the existence of an overruling Providence 
at all.” 

“Your feelings may be strong, but they need not find re- 
lief in blasphemy, my dear,” said her father acidly, though 
with trembling lips. “But I will not preach on that sub- 
ject again, although your preservation distinctly shows — ” 

“I don’t care what it shows or not,” said Frances, des- 
perately, “I only know that I want never to hear of it 
again. Good-bye, father. I am sorry you do not under- 
stand me better. Some day, perhaps — ” she spoke in a 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


223 


half-hearted and discouraged manner, “some day you may 
be able to understand.” 

And then she left Silas Wedderburn to chew the cud of 
his own memories, and to console himself with the reflec- 
tion that women were always narrow-minded and unjust. 


224 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

MISS WEDDERBURN’S ADVICE. 

Miss Lavinia Wedderbum had gone out to tea. It was 
not often that she indulged in these festivities: she liked 
to keep an eye upon her cousin rather than to indulge in 
tea-parties with the old ladies of the congregation; but on 
this occasion she thought that Silas was safe. She had 
tucked him up with tender care in his own study: she had 
darkened the windows and provided him with eau-de-col- 
ogne and tea: and she had given strict orders that nobody 
was to be admitted: it was therefore with no little chagrin 
that she learned on her return home, that a young lady had 
been to see “master,” and had remained with him in his 
study half an hour or more; and that she would not listen 
to Jane when Jane remonstrated, but had marched straight 
into master’s study, as bold as brass, and as if no one would 
dare to say her nay. 

Interrogated further, Jane acknowledged that the lady 
was very good-looking, and well-dressed, and that she had 
seen her in the town sometimes with Miss Fleming, but 
that she did not know her name. And that master had 
seemed very put out and queer like, when the visitor had 
departed, and had ordered the tea out of the room and 
gone up to dress, immediately. And he was still in his 
own room, she believed, but wasn’t sure. 

What had happened? Bitterly did Miss Wedderbum 
lament her own carelessness in going out to tea. She sus- 
pected every woman of her acquaintance of wishing to 
make love to Silas, and her mind fixed itself on a certain 
Miss Stevenson, who was slightly acquainted with the 
Flemings certainly, but who had distinguished herself late- 
ly by her extreme devotion to Mr. Wedderburn’s chapel. 


MISS WEDDERBURN’S ADVICE. 


225 


“Good-looking, indeed!” said Miss Wedderburn to herself 
with a toss of her head. “As good-looking as a Dutch 
doll, with her red cheeks and bold black eyes. If I had 
been at home I would have heard every word she had to 
say. Fve no doubt she asked Silas to marry her.” 

Lavinia was dominated by two passions, her love for Si- 
las, and her greed of gold. It would have been difficult 
to say which ruled her more completely, sometimes it 
seemed as though one preponderated, sometimes the other. 
But her determination to marry Silas was laying a great 
hold upon her, and might in time possibly supersede the 
other. At present she thought of nothing else and her 
heart was hot within her when she reflected on “the chan- 
ces” that her absence had given to Maria Stevenson. She 
went into the study and seated herself, resolving to wait 
until Silas came down. 

When he appeared, his aspect was so much changed, that 
she said at once that something unusual had occurred. She 
had left him half asleep, unwashed, unbrushed in his com- 
fortable dressing gown and slippers, with a bottle beside 
him, which she did not think that he would neglect, and a 
hazy intention of slumbering the afternoon away. She 
saw him now, erect, clean, “well-groomed,” in the most 
clerical attire possible, with snowy linen, and gold chain 
conspicuous on his black waist-coat. Miss Wedderburn’s 
heart gave a sudden throb of fear. Had Maria proposed? 
— and had Silas accepted the proposal? 

“I am glad to see you so much better,” she said, in a 
tone that savored of offence rather than of gladness. 

“Yes, I am better.” Frances’s visit had acted on Silas 
as a tonic: he looked round him discontentedly. “Why 
does not Jane make the room a little tidier? She ought to 
have brushed up the ashes after dinner and opened the 
window. The atmosphere is intolerable.” 

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Miss Wedderburn, as her 
cousin stalked to the window and impatiently flung it open. 
“This is a change indeed. Why, when I left you, you were 
16 


226 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


in a state of collapse, and declaring that you shivered with 
cold. What has worked this marvelous cure, Silas? 
Your visitor?” 

“My visitor?” said Silas, suddenly facing her. 

“Jane told me,” said Lavinia, sitting very erect, with 
her hands folded before her in her lap. “And I must say 
once for all, Silas, that I think it very improper for you 
to receive ladies — especially rather young ladies — in your 
study when I am out. You don’t set up to hear confes- 
sions, as they do in the Komish Church, that I am aware 
of! Why, then, should any respectable young person come 
to see you in your study when she can always ask for me, 
and generally find me at five o’clock in the drawing-room!” 

“Lavinia, you do not understand.” 

“I understand quite enough. Whether it is Maria Ste- 
venson or anybody else, I do not concern myself. It is de- 
cidedly wrong for you to receive any lady alone in that 
manner, Silas, and the deacons will be remonstrating with 
you if they get wind of it.” 

“It is not very likely that they will get wind of it,” said 
Silas, turning his back upon her and looking out of the 
window. His cousin’s voice grated upon his ears, on which 
Frances’s refined and musical accents were vibrating still. 

“Why not? And why do you turn your back upon me, 
Silas, unless you are ashamed to look me in the face? If 
Maria Stevenson — ” 

“It was not Maria Stevenson,” said Silas, annoyed by 
the repetition of the name. 

“Not! Who in the world was it, then?” 

He paused a moment before he replied. “It was Miss 
Corbet,” he said at length. 

“Miss Corbet!” 

Lavinia was for once taken by surprise. But she re- 
covered herself almost instantly. A strange smile flitted 
over her pale face. 

“Miss Corbet! And what did she want? Is she ser- 
ious? Is she under conviction of sin? I saw her in chap- 


MISS WEDDERBURN’S ADVICE. 


227 


el last night, Silas, listening most intently to your sermon. 
And crying afterwards: I am sure of that. Did she come 
to you about her soul? It would be splendid to get her 
over to the Connection, would it not?” 

‘‘I don’t know why,” said Mr. Wedderburn, in an an- 
noyed tone. “She has no money that I know of — unless 
Corbet leaves her some, and she has no friends, no posi- 
tion — ” 

“What do you mean?” cried his cousin, with a note of 
wonder in her voice. “What do you know of her? Who 
is she? Has she told you her real name?” 

“How do you know that Corbet is not her real name?” 

“Oh, everybody knows it isn’t,” said Miss Wedderburn 
sharply. “I’ve heard Miss Kettlewell talk about it. Mad 
as she was, she knew people’s genealogies pretty accurate- 
ly. She always said that there was no existing Corbet who 
could have a daughter of that age, unless it were Laurence 
Corbet himself. And she always maintained that Frances 
was exactly like one of the dead and gone Hernesdales.” 

“There is no need for any speculation of that kind,” said 
Silas loudly, as if determined to hear no more of it. “I 
can tell you who Frances Corbet is, Lavinia. She is my 
daughter.” 

He really thought that Lavinia would have had a fit. 
She turned deadly white, then red, then purple, then al- 
most black, and, after the first gasp of astonishment, re- 
lieved her feelings by a great burst of hysterical laughter, 
ending in a sob. Silas Wedderburn ^azed at her severely. 

“Are you mad, Lavinia?” he asked. 

• “Mad! Mad!” cried Miss Wedderburn, wiping her eyes, 
“no, but all the world is mad, I think. Oh, if only I had 
known it a few months ago! Oh, me! Of all the re- 
markable things — ” 

“I must say that your emotion strikes me as rather ridic- 
ulous, Lavinia,” said Mr. Wedderburn testily. “The thing 
is perfectly easy to understand.” 

“You are sure of it?” she said, clutching wildly at his 


228 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


arm. “You are certain? There is no possibility of mis- 
take?” 

“Not at all. She came here and told me herself.” 

“But she might be an impostor. She might think she 
had something to gain,” said Miss Wedderburn, cunningly. 

“What should there be to gain? You are very unrea- 
sonable, Lavinia. Besides, I knew the girl at once, as soon 
as I had the clue. The reason why I turned faint in the 
pulpit last night was because I recognized her. I was 
thinking about the shipwreck, you know, and her face 
suddenly caught my eye. I must confess that I was dis- 
turbed. I thought for one foolish moment that it might 
be a spirit — coming back to — to reproach me — ” 

“Reproach you? What on earth for?” 

“For — for leaving her, Lavinia. You know I made my 
escape — without my child. Not otherwise did I think I 
could do my duty to the Society which employed me. I 
did not think I ought to sacrifice the information, the in- 
fluence, I had gained. Events proved that they did not 
stand me in much stead. But I did my duty — I did my 
duty, even though I had to leave my little child behind.”' 

He shook his head and his dark eyes filled with tears. 
He firmly believed himself justified in having saved his 
own life from the burning Attaman. And Miss Wedder- 
burn comforted him by taking precisely tlie same view of 
the situation. 

“Of course you did your duty,” she said, “and in a most 
exalted and heroic manner, Silas. But we must not ex- 
pect our sacrifice to be always recognized by the outer 
world. A valuable life like yours had to be preserved at 
any cost. How did the child escape?” 

Mr. Corbet was one of the passengers. He took charge 
of the child, and I knew she would be safe with him,” said 
Silas, embroidering his narrative a little. “He had great 
influence with the captain and the crew; he was a man of 
large fortune, you see, and eveiy effort would be made to 
save him; so I thought it the best thing in the world to 


MISS WEDDERBURN’S ADVICE. 


229 


leave the child in his care. My judgment has been per- 
fectly justified,” said Silas, with an air of complacency. 

“But afterwards?” urged Miss Wedderburn. “Didn’t 
you know where he was to be found? Couldn’t he have 
discovered you? How is it that you have never seen your 
daughter from that day to this?” 

“He grew fond of her, I believe, and decided to adopt 
her,” said Mr. Wedderburn, faltering a little. “And they 
have been very little in England. I must confess that I 
never associated Corbet of Denstone with the Mr. Corbet 
of the Attaman. But they might have found me if they 
had chosen.” 

“Of course they might. Then what brought the girl 
here? Had she a natural longing to see her relations? 
She never struck me as an affectionate girl. I used to 
think her very stiff and proud when I saw her at King’s 
Leigh.” 

“She came because — well, it is rather difficult to say. 
She does not wish the relationship to be known.” 

“Oh, I daresay.” 

“And I must say, Lavinia, that to make it public at 
present would be to bring a great many difficulties upon 
me.” 

“In what way?” said Miss Wedderburn, with gleaming 
eyes. 

“In many ways,” said her cousin, impressively “If it 
were known that she was my daughter, I might be com- 
pelled to offer her a home. That would not suit me, La- 
vinia; it would not, I think, suit you.” 

“No,” said Lavinia, after a moment’s pause. “I must 
say it would not.” 

“We should bring Mr. Corbet’s ill-will upon us also. 
He might furnish the congregation with a garbled version 
of the shipwreck story — ” 

“Ah, I understand,” said Miss Wedderburn. “Yes, I re- 
member how scared you were, Silas, when I alluded to that 
a little while ago. Your London Committee never pro- 


230 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


fessed themselves satisfied on that point. They accused 
you of cowardice, did they not? Well, of course, I think 
you were perfectly right; but it would be awkward if the 
story were told from the wrong point of view.” 

Mr. Wedderburn writhed in his chair. “My conscience, 
Lavinia,” he said, “my conscience acquits me — ” 

“It acquits you of a good many things that some people 
call a little queer, doesn’t it?” said Miss Wedderburn. “But 
I did not mean to vex you, Silas. All I want to know is 
this; I do hope you parted on good terms with this girl?” 

“Fairly,” said Frances’s father, in a dubious tone, “fair- 
ly. She does not wish to be known by the name of Wed- 
derburn — ” 

“Ah, well, perhaps that is for the best, so long as Lau- 
rence Corbet doesn’t tell. But I don’t think he is anxious 
to have much to do with us.” 

“ — And she offered to help me at any time, should I be 
in need — ” 

“You accepted the offer, of course?” said Miss Wedder- 
burn, rising from her seat in gathering excitement. 

“Well, no, Lavinia, I can’t say that I did, exactly.” 

“Oh, you fool!” cried Lavinia, evidently quite beside 
herself with rage and disappointment. “Oh, you fool, 
you fool, you fool!” 

“Lavinia!” 

“You always were a fool and will continue one to the 
end of your days, Silas Wedderburn! Oh, if you only 
knew what you were flinging away — ” 

She stopped suddenly, shut her mouth tightly, and look- 
ed suspiciously at her cousin. 

“I only mean,” she said, in an entirely different tone of 
voice, “that Mr. Corbet is sure to provide for Frances and 
that it might be very convenient now and then to have a 
rich daughter to fall back upon. You will never make a 
fortune, Silas; your health is not good; you are in debt. 
You would have done well to tell Frances that you would 


MISS WEDDBRBURN’S ADVICE. 


231 


be most grateful for any help that she could afford you — 
especially now.” 

“I — I do not understand you, Lavinia,” said Mr. Wed- 
derburn, with an attempt at dignity. “It did not seem to 
me that I could accept — money — from a daughter who re- 
fused to bear my name. But of course there are circum- 
stances — ” 

“In which she might be useful,” said Lavinia, briskly. 
“My dear Silas, I should advise that you write to her and 
say that you have reconsidered the position and would be 
very glad if she could accommodate you with two or three 
hundred pounds.” 

“I am afraid I cannot do that,” faltered Mr. Wedder- 
burn. But at the same moment, it flashed across his mind 
that he probably could — and would. 


282 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

MR. DERRICK ASKS QUESTIONS. 

Frances rejoined Mrs. Fleming at the doctor’s house, 
and was not surprised to find that her hostess regarded her 
with a little coldness after her solitary excursion into the 
town. But she was not in the mood to explain herself. 
She was feeling bitter and angry; and she had fully made 
up her mind that she would never acknowledge any rela- 
tionship to the man whom she had scorned, the father 
whom she despised with her whole soul. She said to her- 
self that if he had owned himself repentant for what he 
had done, she might have had some pity, some affection for 
him, but his self-satisfaction, his utter ignorance that he 
had acted basely, deprived her of all sympathy for him. 
She would do anything she could for him, if ever he asked 
her for help, hut she would not live in his house, nor call 
him father, nor acknowledge any tie of obedience, much 
less of love. 

And in this lonely mood of hers, her thoughts turned 
longingly to Laurence, who had been the friend of her 
childhood, the savior of her life at first, its guardian and 
protector ever afterwards. Who was like him in his gen- 
tleness, his loyalty, his manly strength and goodness! What 
a contrast he presented to this father of hers, who had 
cast her off like an old glove when she was in his way. 
She had never felt herself in Laurence’s way; never thought 
for one moment that he grudged any sacrifice that he 
could make for her. She had accepted everything from 
him, almost as a matter of course. Now she began, in 
her new-found gratitude, to wish that she could recompense 
him in some way for the trouble and pains that he had so 
freely spent on her. 


MR. DERRICK ASKS QUESTIONS. 333 

Well, there was one way. He had asked her to be his 
wife, and she had refused. She had never thought that 
she could refuse him anything he asked for, and yet she 
had rejected his proposal with positive anger and scorn. 
She began to be sorry for Laurence, and to wonder, a lit- 
tle tremulously and timidly, whether she had not been 
mistaken. Whether there could be anybody in the whole 
wide world who was half so dear as he. But she said not a 
word to anyone of her perplexities, her misgivings, her 
fears, she only grew a little graver, a little more silent and 
also a little thinner and paler from day to day; so that 
Dr. Fleming sometimes gave her a keen and rather serious 
look, and Mrs. Fleming wondered uneasily whether she 
had not something ‘‘on her mind.” But Chloe was hap- 
py with her; there was some unexpressed affinity between 
the natures of the two girls which made them pleasant 
companions for one another, and Frances therefore re- 
mained at King’s Leigh for a visit which was to-be pro- 
longed indefinitely. And Mrs. Fleming, knowing Lau- 
rence’s sentiments, thought it far better that she should 
be at King’s Leigh than at Denstone. 

Silas Wedderburn was less self-satisfied than Frances 
thought him. There were certain prickings of conscience 
which. he tried hard not to feel, and he had never been 
really comfortable in his mind about the child whom he 
had abandoned. He was relieved to find that she did not 
want him to acknowledge her; and he was distinctly puz- 
zled by Lavinia’s extraordinary excitement when she 
heard that Frances was his daughter. A suggestion made 
by Lavinia also bore fruit. Frances had promised to help 
him; probably she had means at her command: was he to 
be troubled and made miserable by his enemies when she, 
his daughter, could set everything right by a stroke of her 
pen? 

He almost forgot that she was not of age, and would 
most likely have no authority over money that might one 
day be her own: she could at present be possessed only of 


234 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


an allowance, and that, as far as he knew, might be small. 
But he heard on all hands of Mr. Corbet’s liberality; and 
he inferred that Frances was treated as generously as every- 
thing and everybody else concerned with him. 

He had some hesitation, however — and it was to his 
credit that he had — about asking his daughter for money. 
After all, as she had said, he had abandoned her upon the 
wreck, and he could not expect her to cherish any decided 
alfection for him. It might seem, he acknowledged, rath- 
er mean, in fact, to ask her for money; but surely a daugh- 
ter would forgive him for trespassing so far upon her 
kindness when it was a question of saving her father from 
— disgrace. 

Yes, disgrace. The word was out now. He had spoken 
it to himself for the first time. He was within measura- 
ble distance of disgrace. And disgrace meant ruin: for 
his livelihood depended upon an unsullied reputation. If 
he were convicted of dishonesty, or even of culpable care- 
lessness in handling money that was not his, he could look 
for no more popularity in Zion Lane. What would be- 
come of him if he could obtain no pastorate in any place? 
if his history debarred him from preaching those eloquent 
sermons for which his name was known? 

And he had not meant to do anything wrong. He re- 
peated it over and over to himself. He would not have 
robbed anybody for the world. He had only been a little 
unbusinesslike. The subscriptions to the chapel building 
fund had been coming in rather fast, and he had paid them 
in to his own account at the bank. Then a sudden need 
for money had arisen: a creditor had pressed him hard, and 
he had taken the money for his own use, intending of 
course to pay it back. But he could not pay it back until 
his next quarter’s salary was paid; and that was not due 
till June. It would have been all right if old Matthew 
Derrick had not come along with his questions and his 
methodical old-fashioned notions about accounts, and 
asked him things he could not answer and requested him 


MR. DERRICK ASKS QUESTIONS. 


236 


to send a list of the subscriptions and to pay in the money 
to old Derrick’s bank. What business had Derrick to 
want that money? It would not be required till the sum- 
mer, and in summer Silas Wedderburn could pay it back. 
Why need anybody make a fuss? But he was uneasily con- 
scious that Derrick was the very man to call such dealings 
by very ugly names. 

The old man’s attack of gout was quite a relief to Mr. 
Wedderburn’s mind. The pain might possibly drive all 
remembrance of the chapel accounts out of his head. And 
when he was better, surely, Silas thought, he could put him 
off for a little while — gain time enough, perhaps, to bor- 
row or beg the money that would put him right. Derrick 
would never think of accusing the minister of embezzle- 
ment. 

He thought once of asking Lavinia to lend him the 
money. He wanted eighty pounds at least, and he knew 
that she had sums in the bank, as well as the annuity which 
Miss Kettlewell had bequeathed to her. But he could not 
bring himself to borrow from Lavinia. He felt sure that 
the debt would give her a hold over him, and that she 
would use her power. He knew that she wanted to marry 
him; and he had no desire now to marry her. If he con- 
fessed to her this little embarrassment of his about the 
funds, he certainly believed that she would threaten him 
with exposure unless he fixed the marriage day. 

A few days after Frances’s visit, a note from Mr. Der- 
rick reached the minister. It contained a few lines only. 

I 

“Dear Mr. Wedderburn: Will you send me the list of 
subscriptions and pay over moneys, as soon as convenient? 
My gout is better and I am able to attend to business now. 
Hope to see you soon. 

Yours very truly, 

Matthew Derrick.” 

“Nothing amiss there!” said Silas Wedderburn to him- 


236 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


self. “I must answer the note, I suppose.” And drawing 
a sheet of paper towards him he made reply at once. 

“Dear Mr. Derrick: I am truly rejoiced to hear that 
you are recovering from your attack. I shall have pleas- 
ure in calling on you with the list at no very distant 
date. I should like to make up the subscriptions to a 
round sum before paying them into your bank. So many 
are so extremely small that they have not yet reached the 
amount that I hoped to hand you. I trust you have good 
news of your son. 

Yours most faithfully, 

Silas Wedderburn.” 

He hesitated a little before penning the word “faith- 
fully.” Had he been faithful to his trust? And then he 
laughed at himself for his over-scrupulousness, and wrote 
the conclusion of his letter without a qualm. He had 
gained some days at least. 

Mr. Derrick sent him no reply to his note. But it was 
with a sharp sensation of fear that Mr. Wedderburn saw 
him one day walk past his window, and heard him rap at 
the door. If he could have got out at the back door he 
would have done so. Unfortunately (he thought) Lavin- 
ia was at home, and she made haste to send Jane to the 
door. And when Jane had gone into the kitchen again 
(but this Mr. Wedderburn did not know) Lavinia shut her- 
self softly into the linen cupboard. 

Mr. Derrick was not looking well. He walked with a 
stick, and he had a troubled expression of face, as of a man 
in pain. Mr. Wedderburn condoled him on his illness, 
and hoped that he was not feeling its effects. 

“Well, no, I don’t know that I am,” said Mr. Derrick, 
letting himself down into a chair with some difficulty, and 
leaning on his stick with both hands. “It’s not that, ex- 
actly. It may be that I have something on my mind, Mr. 
Wedderburn, and don’t quite know how to get rid of it.” 


MR. DERRICK ASKS QUESTIONS. i}37 

“Indeed! 1 hope it’s nothing serious,” said the minis- 
ter, in some inward perturbation. 

“I hope not, I hope not. It would be a great blow to 
me if it was serious. But I cannot think it. I cannot 
think it, sir.” 

Silas did not speak. He began to perceive that Mr. 
Derrick was leading up to some communication which he 
found difficult to make. 

“It’s just a little mistake that has occurred,” he said, 
“referring to those subscriptions paid into the building ac- 
count — or rather, not paid into it as yet, but in your nain - 
at the bank. You seemed not to know exactly how mucii 
had been })aid over to you. I know that ministers are noi 
as a rule business men: I believe they very often don’t kec]) 
accounts; and that may be all very well for themselves 
(though in my opinion it leads to Ruin!), but in church 
matters, sir, it behooves us to be careful. And I cannot 
deny that there is a little appearance of carelessness in this 
affair, Mr. Wedderburn.” 

“Indeed, sir!” was Wedderburn’s response, in a much of- 
fended tone, “you will find no carelessness, I am' certain, 
when I hand you the accounts.” 

“Well, I hope not — I hope not,” said Mr. Derrick, with 
a specific air. “You haven’t the accounts ready to hand to 
me at the present moment, have you ?” 

“I am afraid I have not,” said Mr. Wedderburn, biting 
his lip. “They are not quite made out — ” 

“So that you don’t know the exact amount?” asked the 
old man, looking at him queerly. 

“Not precisely.” 

“But you can make an approximation, no doubt. Twen- 
ty, thirty, forty pounds, eh, Mr. Wedderburn?” 

“Oh, yes, quite so.” 

“Quite forty pounds?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, I should think so,” said Derrick, “considering that 
Dr. Fleming gave twenty, which my son Andrew tells me 


^38 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


he handed to you the other day. You had forgotten that, 
I think, when you said that you would consult Mr. Alden?” 

There was dead, blank silence. Silas Wedderburn knew 
quite well what had happened now. Matthew Derrick had 
detected him in a prevarication — almost a lie; and his sus- 
picions as to Wedderbum’s honesty were thoroughly 
aroused. Silas would have given anything to be able to 
speak, to refute the horrible accusation which confronted 
him in Matthew Derrick’s eyes; but his tongue clove to 
the roof of his mouth, and he could not speak a word. 

The silence seemed to him to last an eternity. In re- 
ality it lasted only two minutes by the clock. Then Mat- 
thew Derrick spoke again. 

‘Tn that case, as you say you are sure there are forty 
pounds belonging to the building fund in your bank, Mr. 
Wedderburn, hadn’t you better write me a cheque for that 
amount, and I’ll take it round and cash it at once and 
transfer it to the chapel account? It will be better to do 
this, so that there may be no more mistakes.” 

Again that deadly silence. Wedderburn knew very 
well that his cheque would be dishonored. He had spent 
all the money in the bank. He made one last stand for 
respectability. 

“I’m afraid I must send round for a new cheque book,” 
he said, with a feeble smile. “I’ve come to an end of 
mine. I can send it you by post, Mr. Derrick.” 

“You can write it on a half sheet of paper, with a stamp, 
you know,” said the miller, with a perfectly unmoved coun- 
tenance. “It does just as well.” 

Then Silas Wedderburn very nearly gave way. He ut- 
tered a smothered exclamation — it sounded like “My God!” 
— and rose from his chair. For no apparent reason, he 
walked to the mantel-piece, leaned his arms upon it, and 
looked down into the fire. He did not know what to do. 
And he felt that his silence was self-revelation. 

Mr. Derrick also said nothing for a minute or two. Then 


MR. DERRICK ASKS QUESTIONS. ^239 

he sighed — and the minister vaguely wondered why — sigh- 
ed and moved uneasily in his chair. 

“I do not wish to inconvenience you, Mr. Wedderburn,” 
he said at last, in a grave voice that was not without kind- 
ness; “but r cannot too strongly impress upon you the ne- 
cessity of regularity and accuracy in all business affairs. 
If you will send me the cheque and a full statement of ac- 
counts by Wednesday, I will take the matter as settled; but 
if there is any further postponement or — or excuse, I shall 
recommend a meeting of deacons and elders to be called 
to inquire into the affair. They would hardly approve of 
your methods of doing business, Fm afraid, Mr. Wedder- 
burn.” 

Silas took his arms down from the mantel-piece and 
faced the old man with a long-drawn sigh, half of humilia- 
tion, half of relief. At least he had a respite. It was Fri- 
day now; he had till Wednesday to get the money. He 
would get it by Wednesday of course, and then old Derrick 
could not look at him with those doubtful, disapproving 
eyes. 

‘T shall send you all the accounts and the cheque by 
Wednesday, you may be sure, Mr. Derrick,” he said almost 
cheerfully; and he pretended not to notice that the old 
man hobbled off without shaking hands, without a friendly 
word. 


240 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXVm. 

A DIFFICULT POSITION. 

“What a fool he is!” said Lavinia Wedderburn to her- 
self. “Oh, what a fool!” 

She had of course heard every word of the interview 
between her cousin and Mr. Derrick. And now she sat 
and meditated on the course that she should pursue. 

No question as to the morality of Silas’s proceedings 
entered her head. She did not trouble herself about such 
things. Silas had got himself into a scrape; how to get 
him out of it was her first consideration. She wanted to 
help him, but with his full recognition of the fact that 
she was helping him; she wanted, as she would have said, 
to get her money’s worth. She had no desire to do good 
by stealth, even for her cousin’s sake. But how could 
she help him in this strait, unless he applied to her and 
told her all. For she did not want to confess to him about 
the linen-cupboard window. If it were closed up, she 
would be deprived of a personal source of interest — and of 
information. 

A little quiet questioning might do much. Miss Wed- 
derburn was quite skilled in the art of putting the thumb- 
screw on Silas. She knew exactly when to turn it and 
when to refrain. She had always hitherto made him tell 
her in the long run — even if he refused at first — any- 
thing that she wanted to know. 

It was at tea-time that she began her work. She had 
Silas all to herself then, and he could not get away. She 
noticed that he looked depressed. 

“It was Mr. Derrick who came this morning, was it 
not, Silas?” she asked, as she handed him a cup of tea. 

‘Tee.” 


A DIFFICULT POSITION. 


241 


“I am 80 glad to see that he is better. But he was 
very lame; he must have wanted to see you very particu- 
larly.^’ 

“A little matter of chapel business,” said Mr. Wedder- 
burn lightly. He had made up his mind that he would 
not tell La\dnia — unless he was obliged. 

“What a trouble all this building must be. You ought 
not to be bothered with it, Silas. Ministers are notorious- 
ly bad business men, as I am told,” said Miss Wedderburn 
with her pleasantest smile, “and I am sure they ought 
not to have to meddle with such things.” 

“Yes, they are very troublesome,” said her cousin, turn- 
ing over the leaves of a book that lay beside his plate. 
Presently, without looking up, he said, “Do you know' 
whether Frances has gone back to Denstone or if she 
is still at King’s Leigh?” 

“Oh, so that is his idea, is it?” said Lavinia to herself, 
quick to seize the indication of his thoughts. Aloud she 
answered, “I think she is at King’s Leigh.” 

“I should rather like to see her again,” said Silas, con- 
versationally. 

“I dare say she would come if you were to ask her.” 

“Perhaps I may.” 

'Then silence reigned, and Miss Wedderburn raged in- 
wardly. But she could say nothing more just then. Her 
opportunity came a little later when she had opened a 
local newspaper which lay upon the table. 

“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “This is very sad.” 

“What is sad?” 

“A young fellow in Jeffrey’s shop — you know the shop, 
Silas; it is in the market-place — has been prosecuted for 
embezzlement. I remember him quite well — such a nice, 
respectable young man. What is embezzlement exactly, 
Silas? Is it stealing?” 

There was a hot flush on Silas’s face. “More like — mis- 
appropriation of funds. No doubt he intended to put the 
money back.” 


II 


242 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Well, that doesn’t seem such a terrible thing, does 
it?” remarked Miss Wedderbum innocently. “That was 
just what he meant to do, I see he says: he lost it at the 
races, and had not time to put it back before it was missed. 
To think of sending a man to prison for that. He has 
got six months.” 

Mr. Wedderbum suddenly rose and went to the door of 
the room. “No more tea, thank you, Lavinia. And — I 
am going to be very busy, so you need not disturb me in 
the study. I shall not want any supper.” 

“Are you going to prepare your sermon?” said Miss 
Wedderbum. “Shall you make any allusion to George 
Fry’s case, Silas? You might speak to the young people 
about it, and point out the evils of dishonesty, might you 
not?” 

To this question, Mr. Wedderbum returned no answer, 
but went across the hall to his study, where he locked 
himself in. 

“He does not mean to tell me,” said Lavinia. “Wliat 
an idiot he is! He is going to tell Frances, who very 
likely hasn’t got any money at all to give away. Will he 
tell her the truth or only half of it, I wonder! And to 
think that he might have it for the asking, if he would 
only carry out his promise to me in return! I have half 
a mind to tell him outright that I know, and prevent him 
from making a fool of himself to Frances and killing the 
goose that will lay golden eggs by and by. He does not 
know what I know about that girl’s future. If I had had 
any idea as to who she was, I don’t think I would have 
kept her out of the money all this time. I shall not wait 
much longer now. A nice downfall for the Flemings it 
will be. 

“As for Silas, if he chooses to apply to Frances rather 
than to me, he will have to settle with me afterwards, that 
is all. I have no patience with a man who absolutely re- 
fuses to act for the best. Silas is worse than a child.” 

Meanwhile Silas was absorbed in the composition of a 


A DIFFICULT POSITION. 


343 


peculiarly difficult letter, which he afterwards addressed to 
Miss Frances Corbet at King’s Leigh. The last version, 
after many unsuccessful attempts, ran as follows: 

“My Dear Daughter, — 

“You may be surprised to receive a letter from me, but 
your visit the other day which gave rise to so many pleas- 
urable as well as painful emotions in my mind, has caused 
me to feel that I may confidently turn to you for help in a 
great emergency. I am in the deepest and most' over- 
whelming anxiety; I have no one to consult, and am on 
the brink of ruin — of, perhaps, what is worse than ruin. 
I entreat you to come to see me once again, and let me 
state my case to you. I believe that you can find a way of 
helping me. 

“This is my last resource. If no help can be found, I 
must leave Eushton for ever, or even put an end to my 
misery in some other way. For your mother’s sake, do 
not abandon me. Come to-morrow, if you can — if not 
to-morrow, on Sunday afternoon, or Monday morning. 
Later, I am afraid, will be too late. 

Your ever loving father, 

“S. W.” 


He would not write his name in full. Who could tell 
whether accident might not lead to the placing of that 
letter in other hands? He would not commit himself so 
far as to w'rite his name. 

He went out before ten o’clock and posted the letter 
with his own hands. Lavinia saw him go, knew whither 
he went, and fumed at her own inability to win his con- 
fidence. “But I will be even with him yet,” she said to 
herself irately. “He shall know where to go for help 
another time. What good will she do him, a ridiculous 
chit, living on Laurence Corbet’s bounty, without a penny 
of her own!” 

Mr. Wedderburn’s letter was delivered to Frances about 
eight o’clock on the Saturday morning. It came up to 


244 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


her room with her tea, and she opened it while she was 
still in her dressing-gown. Her father would have been 
hurt if he could have seen her when she had read the let- 
ter. She laid it down and laughed — not hysterically — 
but with real amusement, mingled with scorn. “He asks 
me not to abandon him — for my mother’s sake!” she said 
to herself. “Did he think of my mother when we were on 
the ship? However, I’ve made up my mind not to think 
of that incident any longer. AVhat can he v-ant to ask 
me? I have no means of helping him! And it is diffi- 
cult.to go to his house without astonishing the Flemings.” 

She came at last to the conclusion that she would try 
and enlist Dr. Fleming’s services. She knew that he was 
very genial, very wide-minded, and she thought that he 
would help her if she appealed to him. So, after break- 
fast, she joined him as he walked up and down the ter- 
race with a pipe in his mouth; and looked at him so in- 
tently for a minute or two that he smiled. 

“What is the matter?” he said. “I’m beginning to 
know that look of yours now. Miss Frances. What mis- 
chief do you Avish me to aid and abet you in now?” 

“Nothing very serious, if only I could tell you what it 
was,” said Frances. 

“That sounds mysterious.” 

“I want you to do something for me without asking 
why. Will you offer me a seat in your brougham when you 
go out this morning? I want to go to Rushton, and I 
very much want to go alone.” ' 

“Eh? Would Chloe be in your w’ay?” 

“I am afraid she would,” said Frances, quite simply. 
“It is nothing wrong. Dr. Fleming, indeed it is not.” 

“I am sure of that,” he answered kindly; “but it may 
not be very wise.” 

“I am not certain that it is very wise. But it is a 
duty — or perhaps a kindness — I am not sure which. And 
at any rate, no harm can come of it. I have some shop- 
ping to do in Rushton, too.” 


A DIFFICULT POSITION. 


245 


"This sounds quite like a conspiracy. Frances, has it 
anything to do with the man* whose chapel you went to — 
Wedderburn?” 

No answer in words came, but Frances’s face flushed 
crimson. ' 

"I am not sure then that I ought to help you. I can- 
not imagine what you can have to do with a man of that 
kind. Is it some case of charity? If so, you had better 
take my wife along with you.” 

“I don’t know what to say or what to do,” said Frances. 
"I thought you would help me.” 

"I should be very glad if I thought you were acting 
wisely. But you say yourself that it is rather a foolish 
errand. Now tell me honestly, do you think that Lau- 
rence Corbet would approve of it? He is your guardian, 
and you are bound to think of his wishes. Would he 
like this expedition, or would he not?” 

“He would not.” 

“Then, my dear girl, I don’t see that I ought to help 
you.” 

Frances stood irresolute, her color coming and going, 
the tears rising to her eyes. 

“I see,” she said in a low tone at last, “that I am not a 
fit person to have come into your family — unless you had 
known all about me first. I must tell you now; I can’t 
bear to let you have this false impression about me. This 
Mr. Wedderburn — ” 

“Yes?” said Dr. Fleming, rather dryly. He was quite 
prepared to hear that Frances wanted to marry him. He 
was not at all prepared for the words she spoke. 

“Mr. Wedderburn,” she said firmly, yet with difficulty, 
as if she scarcely knew how to utter the words distinctly, 
“Mr. Wedderburn is my father.” 

“What!” cried the doctor. He faced her with an ex- 
pression of utter incredulity. “You are dreaming, Fran- 
ces. You are not that man’s daughter, surely?” 

“Yes. When the Attaman was burnt, I was with him 


246 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


— a child of nine years old. Mr. Corbet took charge of 
me; we were divided, and Mr. Corbet, hearing no news of 
my father, resolved to adopt me.” 

“My poor girl!” said the doctor. “And did you not 
know that he was here?” 

“Not till after we came. Then I wanted to see him and 
to hear him preach. And now he has asked me to go and 
see him for very special reasons. I don’t know what they 
are. And I don’t know how to go, unless you will help 
me. Perhaps I have no right to ask for your help. 1 
know how you must dislike anyone connected with — 
Miss Wedderbum.” 

“No such thing!” said the doctor cheerily. “I am not 
so unjust as that comes to. Well, my dear, I am glad you 
have told me. And I see no harm in your going to visit 
your father; but so long as people will gossip, you must 
be careful what you do. Now shall I tell my wife, or 
would you rather I did not?” 

“I think — until I have seen Laurence again — I would 
rather tell nobody but you,” said Frances. And there 
was something in her eyes which seemed to Dr. Fleming 
infinitely sad. 

“Go and get ready,” he said, pushing her from him 
with playfulness that was assumed to cover some sign of 
his own emotion; “Fll make it all right with the missis, 
and the brougham will be at the door in ten minutes. 
Will that do?” 

“I can never be grateful enough,” said Frances. 

“Poor girl! she is in a very difficult position,” said the 
doctor, when he was left alone. “I wish I could tell 
Margaret — but perhaps she will let me do so when she has 
‘seen Laurence’ as she expresses it and referred the matter 
to him. Daughter of Wedderbum! A pretty kettle of 
fish if Lady Hernesdale gets to know.” 

And Dr. Fleming shrugged his shoulders as he pre- 
pared for the morning’s drive to Rushton. 


THE LAST PLEA. 


247 


CHAPTEE XXIX 

THE LAST PLEA. 

This time Mr. Wedderbum was prepared for the coming 
of his daughter. When Dr. Fleming’s brougham set her 
down at the little red-brick house, Silas was scrupulously 
dressed in his best clothes and ready to receive her at the 
door. He intercepted Miss Wedderbum and the wonder- 
ing Jane, who wanted to look at her. Silas waved them 
back with his white, helpless-looking hand. “I will take 
Miss Corbet to the study, Lavinia,” he said, with his 
most majestic air. ‘T wish to talk to her on a matter of 
business.” And Miss Wedderbum retired, with the dis- 
comfited Jane, to the kitchen. 

“That’s the young lady as came the other day,” Jane 
remarked. “I told you she was good-looking.” Jane’s 
manner was distinctly familiar. “You said you was sure 
she wasn’t.” 

“I thought you meant someone else,” said Miss Wedder- 
burn. “I know Miss Corbet. If you had the sense to ask 
her to leave her name, I should have known whom you 
meant.” 

“Law, Miss, I shouldn’t have known where to look — 
asking people their names, when they come to the house; 
they would say I was a rude thing,” said Jane, whose ac- 
quaintance with the form of polite society was strictly 
limited. 

“It is usual in the best houses,” said Miss Wedderbum, 
loftily. “But that, Jane, nobody would expect you to 
know. You had better take your basket and go to the 
green-grocer’s, we want vegetables for to-morrow.” 

“And leave you to prowl round the study door and lis- 
ten to what’s going on there,” muttered Jane to herself, 


248 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


but even she did not dare to say it aloud. She put on her 
hat and shawl and took up her market basket with a jerk; 
and when she was fairly out of the house, Miss Wedder- 
burn entered the linen-cupboard. 

And here she discovered something which filled her 
with dismay. The hole in the wall had been carefully 
covered over with boards nailed down tight and fast. 
Somebody — Silas, probably — had noted the aperture and 
taken pains to prevent its being used against his privacy. 
Not a sound from the study could penetrate the linen- 
cupboard where Miss Wedderburn stood. 

It would be difficult to describe the stonn of anger 
which arose in Lavinia’s breast when she made this dis- 
covery. Evidently Silas had suspected her. And also he 
had not confided in her about Mr. Derrick and the chapel- 
money. He was going to confide in Frances instead of in 
her, was he? But he did not know what it would be to 
have Lavinia Wedderburn for an enemy, and not a friend! 

Oh, she would give him up altogether. If he chose to 
marry her, he should have his chance. She had always 
wanted to be Silas Wedderburn’s wife. If he would trust 
lier, and confide in her, and tell her everything, she would 
still marry him and make him a good wife; but otherwise, 
she would make him suffer for his broken faith with her. 
For he had promised to marry her soon after he came to 
Kush ton; and it pleased Lavinia to believe that it was she 
and not Silas who had delayed the marriage. Now it 
seemed as if Silas were holding back. It made her furious 
to think that he was telling his daughter of his difficulties 
when he had not told them to her. And it was madden- 
ing that she could not hear w'hat father and daughter 
said. She went into the little drawing room and sat there 
with the door open — to w-ait until Frances should come out 
— waited, grim and unscrutable as Fate, with her hands 
crossed upon her knees and her eyes looking straight be- 
fore her, yet seeing nothing as they looked. 

Mr. Wedderburn received his daughter with a sort of 


THE LAST PLEA. 


249 


I deference which Frances did not altogether appreciate. 
She was impatient of it, as she was still bitter and impa- 
tient with him. She noticed the change in his dress and 
the scrupulous neatness of his study, but it seemed to her 
as if the improvements were made for the sake of effect and 
they produced no impression upon her. She was hard on 
her father — it could not be denied that she was hard; but 
, perhaps she had some reason after all. Silas Wedder- 
burn had not been a good father to her. 

“I have come because you wished to see me,” she began. 
“But I am afraid I can be of no use to you.” 

She was standing by the table as she spoke, but she ac- 
cepted the chair that he offered her. He drew another 
to the table, so they sat near each other. It was not im- 
possible that he suspected Lavinia of listening at the door. 

“I appreciate your kindness, your feeling for your 
father,” Mr. Wedderburn said, witli emotion. “I was sure 
that your heart would plead for me. I was sure that you 
would be ready to do all that you could for me.” 

“Only I am afraid I can do nothing.” 

“Ah, my child, what seems nothing to you in your 
splendid circumstances is often a great deal to a poor man 
like me. Ho doubt you spend as much on dress and trink- 
ets as I have for my whole income.” 

His eye fell upon a gold bracelet that Frances was 
wearing, and Frances saw that it did so. She felt vexed 
and exasperated. 

“You are very much mistaken,” she said. “Mr. Corbet 
has always given me my dress and ornaments and paid for 
them himself. I have an allowance, of course; it is am- 
ple, but it is not such a great one as you seem to think. I 
have forty pounds a year for myself, if you like to know 
the amount.” 

“I did not wish to offend you, or to hurt your feelings, 
my child,” said Mr. Wedderburn. Frances wished that 
he would not say “my child.” It sounded too patronizing 
under the circumstances. Legally she was his child; but 
in no other sense. 


350 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“I wanted to tell you/’ said Silas, in a rather altered 
voice, “of the difficulties that I am in just now. Money 
difficulties, I mean. No doubt you hardly understand the 
significance of money difficulties. You have been secured 
against them for the last few years. But your father, 
Frances, is in need, in dire need, of money; and it is be- 
cause he thinks that you may possibly help him that he 
has applied to you.” 

“It is of no use,” said Frances, with a little added col- 
or in her cheeks. She remembered what Laurence had 
said to her on the very subject. She had not then thought 
it possible that her father would ask her for a gift. But 
she had been mistaken, and Laurence had been quite right. 
“I wish I could help you, I do indeed; but I have no 
money of my own, except ten pounds, and that would not 
be much use, would it? but you can have the ten pounds 
if you like; and there are my ornaments, but I don’t sup- 
pose they would sell for very much.” 

“No, my dear, no,” said her father. “I hope you do not 
think that I would impoverish you in that way. I had 
something quite different in my mind. I am, as I have 
told you, in great distress for money. I cannot put it too 
strongly; I am in great need, great distress. I want close 
upon a hundred pounds to set me right. It will not re- 
lieve me from much anxiety and inconvenience, but it 
will at least preserve me from — ruin. Do you want to see 
your father utterly ruined for lack of a hundred pounds?” 

“Of course I do not,” said Frances impatiently. “If I 
had the hundred pounds you should have it in a moment. 
But what is the use of asking me?” 

“There is this use,” said Mr. Wedderburn, moistening 
his dry lips with his tongue to give himself the power of 
speech, for he was excessively nervous, “that you are con- 
stantly in communication with persons who are rich in 
this world’s goods, who have a regard for you and would 
help you if they knew that you required a loan.” 


THE LAST PLEA. 


261 


“That I required it?^ said Frances. “But 1 do not re- 
quire it; I could not tell them that. Besides, in any case, 
I could not ask them for a loan.’’ 

His eye fell before hers; his fingers twitched uneasily. 
Evidently Frances was a difficult girl to move. But he 
hoped yet to induce her to listen to his plea. 

“I should perhaps not have said that you required it,” 
he began again, a little falteringly. “But I thought that 
there would be no harm in your going — frankly and open- 
ly — to Mr. Corbet and saying to him that your father 
was in straitened circumstances and that you wished to as- 
sist him. Mr. Corbet is a generous man; his behavior to 
you has proved that; and I am sure he would not refuse 
to lend me, through you, the sum of one hundred pounds. 
I feel certain that he would not refuse.” 

“Yes,” said Frances, after a moment’s pause. “I also 
feel sure that he would not refuse.” Then, after an in- 
stant of silence, she added, in a deeper tone, “But I should 
despise myself if I gave him the opportunity of lending 
you money. I shall never ask him for a penny — either 
for you or for myself.” 

“Your scruples are very honorable to you,” said Mr. 
Wedderburn, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, “but I 
think that you might be justified in sacrificing a scruple 
or two for your father’s sake.” 

“My father’s sake? He has done so much for me!” 

“My conduct,” said her father, “has nothing to do with 
the matter. You are my daughter, whether you approve 
of me or not. The question is whether you will try to 
help your father at the hour of his need or whether you 
will not.” 

“Not in that way!” 

“And why not in that way? It is straightforward and 
honorable enough. Tell Mr. Corbet that I will repay him 
next year, or by instalments; I will give any interest he 
likes. It is a pressing need — a very pressing need. Tell 
him this, and he will understand better than you can do. 
Girls do not understand business matters; they underrate 


252 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


the importance of wealth. It would cost Mr. Corbet noth- 
ing to assist me; it is a matter of life or death to me.” 

He was becoming agitated. He had counted on Frances’s 
readiness to help him. Now that she was proving herself 
so resolutely set against his proposal, he began to feel 
afraid. 

“I cannot ask Mr. Corbet,” she said. Her voice trem- 
bled as she went on. “Can you not understand how pain- 
ful it would be to me to ask him for money — either for my- 
self or you? He has taken charge of me all these years; 
he has educated me; the very clothes on my back are paid 
for by him — because you — you, my father, deserted me 
when I was a child. What right have you to expect help 
from him? Do you not know — can’t you guess — what he 
thinks of you already? Would you have me lessen his 
respect for you by going to him with a request for money 
to pay your debts? Oh, it is intolerable — shameful! I 
wish I had never come to you at all.” 

She buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears. 
Mr. Wedderburn rose and turned his back on her. If she 
had looked at him she would have seen that his hands 
were trembling as he fingered the ornament on the mantel- 
piece without knowing what he did. But when she had 
dried her eyes, he turned round and spoke again. 

“I see,” he said, “that your mind has been poisoned 
against your father, and you do not care what becomes of 
him, whether he lives or dies, whether he is a ruined or 
a prosperous man!” 

“I do care,” said Frances, “but I cannot — I cannot — 
go to Mr. Corbet on your behalf.” She stood up, as if to 
go. 

“You have other friends,” said Silas tentatively. “There 
are the Miss Flemings — ” 

“It is quite impossible,” she answered, turning towards 
the door. 

Then Mr. Wedderburn realized that he had failed. For 


THE LAST PLEA. 


253 


a moment his strength gave way; he sank into the nearest 
chair and covered his face with his hand. “Good God!” 
he murmured. “I am heavily punished for the wrong I 
did my child!” 

It was a perfectly sincere exclamation. Perhaps for the 
first time Silas Wedderburn saw his own conduct in its true 
light. Nothing could have brought it home to him so 
much as Frances’s refusal to bestir herself on his behalf, 
and her hint respecting Mr. Corbet’s opinion of him. Like 
most men of great vanity, his self-respect varied with the 
respect of others. And at that moment, his daughter’s 
contempt made him ashamed of himself. 

Frances paused. She could not hear the ejaculation 
without being slightly moved by it. She saw the ashy 
color of his lips, the tremulous motion of his hands, and 
for the moment she hesitated. The w'oman who hesitates 
is lost. 

“Why,” she said, “should you want this money all at 
once? If I was to send you a little — now and then, could 
you not pay off your debt by instalments? You could 
not be ruined — surely — for a hundred pounds.” 

There was wonder and bewilderment in her voice. 

“Ruin!” Silas Wedderburn cried. “You do not know 
what ruin means! By ruin I mean something worse than 
loss of money, failure, bankruptcy even — I mean dis- 
grace.” 

“Disgrace!” she echoed drearily. 

“You will hear of me as dragged off to prison, Frances. 
You will hear of me as a felon. Then perhaps I shall be 
punished enough.” 

She stood perfectly still. Twice she tried to speak and 
failed. When at last she could find voice, she said 
hoarsely, 

“You have been dishonest? Is that what you mean?” 

“I swear I never meant to be dishonest,” said Silas Wed- 
derburn, bow'ing his head before her. “I used it — some 
money, given for our building fund — I meant to pay it 


354 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


back again. Derrick suspects — I shall be ruined if he 
finds it out. I have promised to send him the full amount 
by Wednesday, and I have nothing — nothing left. You 
were my sole hope; and — have failed me!” 

“If he finds out,” said Frances, “tell me — what will he 
do?” 

“He has threatened already to call a meeting; he will 
ask questions and expose me. I shall be prosecuted — and 
sent to ” 

He could not say the word, but Frances understood the 
rest. 

“Yes,” she said slowly, after a little pause, “disgrace is 
worse than ruin — worse than death. Yet I — I thought I 
should feel disgraced if I asked Laurence Corbet for 
money. What am I that I should mind? I am this 
man’s daughter, I partake of his nature, perhaps, I am cast 
in the saine mold!” Then she clasped her hands together, 
and drew herself up to her full height. 

“Ho, not that!” she said, in a louder tone. “No, I am 
not at least content in degradation and disgrace!” 

Her father heard her, but did not understand the course 
her mind was taking. She had perceived instinctively that 
it was not the wrong-doing that troubled him, but only 
the punishment. It was public disgrace he feared, not the 
disgrace of sin. 

She drew herself away from him, and spoke calmly. 

“I did not know at first,” she said, “what necessity there 
was for money; I see things differently now. I would do 
a great deal, father, to save you from what you fear. I 
will go to Mr. Corbet — for your sake. Don’t thank me, 
don’t touch me; I can’t bear anything more just now. 
You want one hundred pounds, do you not? Well, you 
shall have it before night.” 

Then she walked out of the room and out of the house, 
without glancing once more at her father’s piteous eyes 
and shaking hands, or even noticing Lavinia Wedderburn’s 
figure at the door. 


ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. 


355 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. 

Frances could be very business-like when she chose. She 
walked straight to the White Hart, which was the good old- 
fashioned inn possessed by Rushton, and much preferred 
by County people to the numerous hotels which were 
springing up here and there, and ordered a fly for herself. 
In the sitting-room which she asked for she then pencilled 
a note to Dr. Fleming, telling him that she had gone to 
Denstone to see her guardian. She knew that he would ap- 
prove of this step, and she depended upon him to explain 
matters to his wife and daughter. She should probably re- 
turn to King’s Leigh before night; and if they thought her 
proceedings very unaccountable they must forgive her and 
let her go. 

She despatched this note by special messenger to the 
doctor’s house. When the fly was ready, she stepped into 
it and told the driver to make the best of his way to Den- 
stone. The landlady begged her to take some lunch — even 
to- drink a glass of wine and eat a biscuit; but Frances felt 
as if food would choke her, and refused everything. Her 
appetite was gone, her remembrance of ordinary hours and 
times and seasons was gone, she only knew that she must 
get to Denstone as quickly as possible, and interview Mr. 
Corbet. It did not occur to her that she would arrive when 
he was at luncheon, but such was actually the case. And 
hearing the wheels and Frances’s voice, he was out on the 
steps almost before she had left the lumbering vehicle in 
which she had arrived. 

“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure!” he said, taking 
both her hands, and looking down into her face with a 
radiant satisfaction from which she involuntarily shrank. 
“You’re just in time for luncheon. Tell the man to go 


256 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


round and get something to eat and drink, Williams, Do 
you want to keep the fly, Frances?” 

“Yes, 1 do,” said Frances. 

“Very well; he can put up the horse for the present.” 
Then he gave her a keen look, as he led her across the hall 
to the dining room, “no bad news, I hope?” he said in her 
ear. 

“Yes,” she answered bitterly. “Very bad news.” 

“Good heavens! What has happened?” 

“Oh, never mind. It will keep till after luncheon. Bad 
news will always keep,” said Frances resolutely. She 
walked into the dining-room, kissed Mrs. Lester, and sat 
down to the luncheon table as if she had never been away. 
In order to avoid remark, she accepted the cutlet that was 
brought to her; but Laurence noticed that she ate nothing 
and that she was — in his eyes — horribly, unaccountably 
pale. 

He sat looking at her and running over in his mind all 
the things that could possibly have happened; but of 
course he did not come near the right solution of the mys- 
tery. When he saw that she refused to eat anything more, 
he became extremely anxious to have a private interview 
with her, and rather snubbed Mrs, Lester who wanted to 
hear some gossip about the Flemings. Presently he 
started up. 

“I am going into the library,” he said, “if you have any 
business to discuss with me, Frances, I am at your service 
any time this afternoon.” 

“Thank you. I will come now if Mrs. Lester will excuse 
me. I came over on purpose to — to consult Mr. Corbet,” 
she added to that lady, mindful of her feelings and of the 
conventionalities. “I shall see you later on.” 

“And now, what is it?” said Laurence, when he had in- 
stalled her in the easiest chair the library afforded, and 
brought her cushions for her head and a footstool for her 
feet. “Let me know this instant; for I am sure it is only 
a misfortune that would make you look so pale. Is the 


ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. 


257 


sunshine in your eyes? I’ll alter the. curtain— that is it. 
And are you comfortable? or would you like a — a scent 
bottle or anything — ” 

“Don’t, Laurence,” said Frances, and turned away her 
head. He had been trying to make her smile by his at- 
tentions, but now he saw that it would be difficult to ob- 
tain a smile from Frances that afternoon. And he could 
not imagine why. 

“My dear,” he said, in an utterly altered tone, “you know 
it is the one desire of my heart to serve and help you. Can 
I do anything for you?” 

“I suppose you can,” she said, sitting up and recklessly 
destroying the elaborate erection of cushions which he 
had constructed. “At least that is what I have come to 
you to do. And I would die sooner than ask.” 

“Is it so bad as that? My poor Frank! But don’t 
you know that it is my greatest delight in the world to help 
you? Tell me what you want, and you may rest certain 
that if I can get it for you, you shall have it.” 

He watched her. She seemed to be making up her mind 
for a supreme effort. She clasped her hands tightly to- 
gether; she grew red and then she grew pale. At last the 
words came. 

“I want — a hundred pounds,” she said. 

It was such an anti-climax, in Laurence’s ideas, to her 
violent emotion, her pallor, her distress, that he almost 
laughed aloud. 

“Well,” he said, “that’s nothing very difficult or remark- 
able. Let me get out my cheque-book, and you shall have 
a cheque in two minutes. Or, as it is Saturday, and you can’t 
get it cashed at the bank, perhaps you would prefer 
notes?” 

There was a touch of amusement in his voice. And, 
as she did not answer, he ventured to lay his hand upon 
her shoulder. 

“Dear Frank,” he said, “you don’t mean that you think it 
a terrible thing to ask me for that?” 

17 


258 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘1 am not going to ask you for it at all/’ said Frances, 
trying to swallow down a sob, “as a gift, at any rate. I 

want it— in quite another way.” ^ 

“As a loan, perhaps?” said Laurence carelessly. All 
right. But why you should bother yourself over such a 
trifle I can’t imagine.” 

He turned to the drawer in which he kept his cheque- 
book, as Frances knew, and was about to open it, when she 
said in a tone of agonized entreaty: 

“Oh, Laurence, stop! Hear me first. It is not for my- 
self — it is for my father.” 

The effect was instantaneous. Laurence’s hand fell 
from the handle of the drawer. He turned his back to it 
and leaned against the table scrutinizing Frances atten- 
tively. The lines of his face hardened as he looked at her. 

“I knew some mischief would come of your going to see 
him,” he said after a short pause. “You will remember 
that I cautioned you, Frances. Particularly as regarded 
money. I think I was tolerably right in my estimation of 
Mr. Wedderbum’s character. I must say he has lost no 
time.” 

“I know — I know all that you can say,” Frances answer- 
ed. “It is atrocious — abominable, and I shall never 
forgive myself for asking you; and yet I must. He — ^he is 
my father, after all.” 

“Poor little Frances!” said Laurence. He left the writ- 
ing-table, and came up to her side, laying his hand tenderly 
on the bo-wed bronze head for a moment, and then letting 
it rest upon her shoulder. “What has he done to you to 
put you into such a state? Played on your generosity, I 
suppose, and made you feel yourself a brute because you 
live at Denstone while he has a little house in a narrow 
Eushton street — ^was that it? I thought you were more 
strong-minded, dear * * * but after all, I don’t like 

strong-minded women, and you are no doubt quite right to 
wish to help your father; but is it very wise do you think?” 

“You are too kind to me,” Frances murmured in a low 


ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. 


269 


voice. “I know you won’t be able henceforth to forget that 
I have asked you for money; you will associate me — with 
him — ” 

“Now you are talking nonsense, my dear. I associate 
you with nobody but yourself — and myself, perhaps. Tell 
me what you want, and let us pass on to pleasanter sub- 
jects.” 

“You said to me one day, that there was some money 
which you had already given me — oh, forgive me for speak- 
ing of it again! — ” 

“Of course there is some money; six thousand pounds 
and interest ready for you when you are of age or want to 
be independent.” 

“Then — might I take a hundred pounds of that for my 
father?” said Frances eagerly. “I don’t know how these 
things are arranged; but I thought that perhaps you could 
manage it for me.” 

“What does your father want it for?” 

Frances turned scarlet and dropped her eyes. 

“A good purpose?” said Laurence, regarding her atten- 
tively. 

“Laurence, that is the worst of it. I can’t tell you.” 

“Does that mean that you do not know?” 

“Yes, I know; but — I cannot tell.” 

“I don’t quite like that, Frances. Why should you 
spend a hundred pounds either of your money or mine, on 
an object that you evidently think not good, which you will 
not tell me?” 

“But it is a good object — in a way,” said Frances. She 
looked doubtful and puzzled. “Is it not a good thing to 
help people — out of — difficulties?” 

“Does Mr. Wedderbum want to help some one out of dif- 
ficulties?” said Laurence in a slightly ironical tone. Then, 
as Frances did not answer, he pursued his point: “Or is it 
Mr. Wedderburn’s own difficulties that you are concerned 
about?” 

“You are unkind, Laurence, to ask me questions when 1 


260 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


have told you I could not answer them/’ said Frances, with 
downcast eyes. 

“Then I will ask no more,” said Mr. Corbet promptly. 
“But I must say, Frances, that I don’t at all like your giv- 
ing this sum to your father — ” 

“Oh, I knew you would despise me for asking you for it.” 

“Nonsense, my good child, you have not asked me for 
it, because it is your own money; and if you did ask me, I 
should feel honored, instead of despising you. No, the 
money I transferred to you some years ago is yours, and I, 
as your guardian and trustee, can advance a portion of it 
quite easily; but what I wish you to lay to heart is this, 
that if you begin by giving a hundred pounds to your father 
a week after you have made yourself known to him, how 
long is that six thousand going to last?” 

“I cannot give him anything without your consent.” 

“Until you are twenty-one. When you are twenty-one 
you can, if you like, make ducks and drakes of it as much 
as you please. But I shall be sorry to see it.” 

Frances looked up at him, and he noted that her eyes 
were wet. 

“Laurence,” she said, with a sweet earnestness which he 
could not resist, “indeed I am not so foolish as you think. 
Of course, I cannot promise that I will never give anything 
to my father, but I will promise not to give away what you 
have given me unless there is real need. There is real need 
now, Laurence; believe me.” 

“I do believe you, with all my heart,” he said. “So 
now let us consider the business settled. How will' you take 
it? as they say at the bank. In notes?” 

“I think it would be better.” 

“So, I daresay it would. Notes can’t be traced so easily, 
eh? Will a hundred be enough, do you think?” 

“Oh, I think so — I hope so.” 

“As we are about it, make it a hundred and fifty. Then 
he can’t complain of not being well treated.” 

“He has not complained,” said Frances in rather a hurt 


ONE HUND.RED POUNDS. 


261 


voice. “And Laurence, I daresay I laid myself open to — 
to — his telling me about his — his troubles, because I had 
said to him, that if ever I could help him, I would. He is 
my father,” she added in a faltering voice. 

“Yes dear; unfortunately. How, you don’t mean to be 
angry with me for that? you know we have always agreed 
that he did not treat you well on board the Attaman. Per- 
haps you would have preferred to be drowned or burnt?” 

Frances could not help a smile. And Laurence was se- 
cretly triumphant, for her face had been so tragic when she 
entered the library, that he had prophesied disaster. 

He unlocked a drawer, and produced a box, from which 
he took the required notes which he enclosed in a large en- 
velope and handed to his ward. “There,” he said gravely, 
“your fortune is diminished to the extent of one hundred 
and fifty pounds.” 

“You are very good to me,” she said gratefully. 

“Good — for letting you have your own property?” 

“It was not my property until you give it me.” 

“That is so long ago that it does not count. And now 
tell me, Frank — I ask merely out of curiosity — what you 
would have done if I had refused to advance it, which I had 
a perfectly legal right tO' do?” 

She sat silent, with her eyes upon the envelope in her 
hand. 

“Tell me, Frank, anything desperate?” 

“I don’t know whether you would call it desperate,” she 
said. “I think I should have gone away into the world 
and never seen you again.” 

“What! You would have been so angry with me?” 

“Not angry, exactly; but I could never have looked you 
in the face again if — ” 

And there she stopped. 

“I see,” said Laurence to himself. “It’s an uglier story 
than she would like me to hear. And it would all have 
come out but for this money which has to be paid to some- 
body, either as blackmail or restitution, or something. I 


868 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


must say, Wedderburn is a man to be proud of. I hope he 
won’t dO' anything very disgraceful before we’ve done with 
him.” 

“It is time for me to be going, Laurence. Will you 
order the fly for me?” 

“Let the fly go back, and I’ll drive you over.” 

“Thank you, no, Laurence. I am sure my father would 
not like it. And people might talk. I had better go quietly 
in a fly, and then return to King’s Leigh.” 

“Well, perhaps it would be better. What does Mrs. 
Fleming say to your escapades?” 

“She does not know of them altogether. But Laurence, 
I was obliged to take Dr. Fleming into my confidence this 
morning. He knows now — who I am.” 

“Fleming is safe enough. But don’t conflde in all the 
world just yet, Frances. Let us see how things go on.” 

He put her into the cab with all his accustomed kindli- 
ness and gentleness, but she fancied that he looked rather 
sad and lonely as he stood on the steps to bid her good- 
bye. 


A BOLD STROKE. 


263 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A BOLD STROKE. 

Frances’s departure from Mr. Wedderburn’s house was 
witnessed by Lavinia with much indignation. The girl’s 
secret anguish had not made her blind to the figure await- 
ing her at the drawing-room door; she had passed it with- 
out recognition, and had greatly infuriated Miss Wedder- 
burn by so doing. Curiously enough, Miss Wedderburn’s 
wrath fell upon Silas rather than on his daughter. She 
had certain plans respecting Frances which she did not in- 
tend to alter; but she was resolved to make Silas suffer for 
the slight he had inflicted upon her in not taking her into 
his confidence. And when Mr. Wedderbum had watched his 
daugliter out of the house and returned to the study, where 
he seated himself in a low chair and covered his face with 
his hands. Miss Wedderbum followed him in her most de- 
termined manner and shut the study door. Silas looked up; 
his face white and drawn from conflicting emotions, his 
eyes wet with tears. 

“Lavinia,” he said, “you will excuse me — but I wish to be 
alone.” 

“I dare say you do-,” said Lavinia calmly, “but as it hap- 
pens, Silas, I have a good deal to say to you, and I wish to 
say it now.” 

“I cannot listen.” 

“Excuse me, but you must and will. There are one or 
two things which I want to point out to you, Silas. You 
think I am blind, but I assure you that I see as much as 
other people.” 

“You see too much — you hear too much,” said Silas, al- 
most passionately. And it seemed to Lavinia that he indi- 
cated with a wave of his hand the bookcase which covered 


264 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


the window into the linen-cupboard. Miss Wedderburn 
blazed into sudden wrath. 

‘Tray Avhat do you mean to insinuate by that?” she asked. 
“That i have pried into your secrets? That I have listened 
to your private conversations? I assure you I can form a 
true estimate of your character without doing that, Silas, 
and I believe I know you as well as anyone in the world.” 

“You know my worst points, I am well aware of it,” 
said Silas bitterly. “You have taken a special pleasure in 
them, I believe.” 

“I have never taken a special pleasure in your weak- 
nesses,” said Lavinia pointedly. “I have often wished that 
I could have prevented you from giving way to them. This 
application of yours to Frances for help— what was it but 
a weakness?” 

“How do you know that I applied to her for help?” 

“I know simply because I have common-sense. She is 
not so fond of you as to come twice in one week without 
special reason. You must have written to her to come this 
second time. And what have you done that for, unless you 
wanted help?” 

Silas was in a difficulty. He tried subterfuge, although 
he knew that it was not an easy matter to put his cousin 
off the scent of a discovery. 

“I acknowledge,” he said, in a conciliatory tone, “that I 
am in debt. I have told you so before. I am pressed by 
my creditors. Under these circumstances, and as Frances 
had offered me her kind assistance, I thought that I might 
as well ask her — for a loan.” 

“Then you are a fool,” said Miss Wedderburn. 

“Lavinia!” 

“And worse! — a liar. What you have told me is not 
true.” 

“Hot true! As heaven is above me, I swear that I am in 
debt,” said Silas, tragically. 

“Ah, yes! But it was not to pay an ordinary debt that 


A BOLD STROKE. 


265 


you applied to Frances. It was to settle that little matter 
about the subscriptions.” 

“Lavinia! Lavinia! For God’s sake! — what do you 
know?” 

“I have hit on the truth at last, have I?” she said, with 
a sour look of triumph which filled Silas Wedderburn with 
sick disgust. “Well, you have as good as confessed it, at 
any rate. I’ve suspected it for some time.” 

Her cousin hid his face. He could say nothing. Even 
Frances’s contempt was not so painful to him as the vulgar 
scorn of his weakness which Lavinia exhibited. Frances 
was above him; he said that; but Lavinia — where was she? 

“I suppose,” said Miss Wedderburn, after a* pause, in 
which she had decided that the less she seemed to know the 
better, “I suppose that Mr. Derrick came to ask you to pay 
over the money? Now for goodness’ sake, speak the truth, 
Silas; I can’t help you out of the mess unless you tell me 
all about it. Was that Matthew Derrick’s errand, or was it 
not?” 

“It was.” 

“And you’ve had the subscriptions? How much was 
paid in?” 

“Close upon eighty pounds.” 

“An'd you’ve spent it all?” 

“Lavinia, you torture me.” 

“Good gracious,” said Lavinia, “isn’t it better for you to 
answer me here than be cross-examined in the dock?” 

She was mistaken in her assumptions, for witnesses not 
criminals are cross-examined. But Mr. Wedderburn was 
not sufficiently himself to set her right, and he only groaned 
aloud. 

“Do answer me without making that noise,” said Lavinia. 
“Did you spend the money?” 

“There was a man at Yarborough who pressed me to pay 
him. It was an old wine-bill; and I thought it would tell 
against me in the eyes of the chapel-people if it became 


266 


A VALUABLE IJFE. 


known. I paid it, and some other accounts, out of the 
building-fund money ' 

‘'And how on earth did you expect to make it up?” 

“I thought they would not want it till July. My salary 
was to be paid in June. It seemed to me feasible enough.” 

“Because you had no common-sense,” said Lavinia, al- 
most pityingly. “You ought to have known that with a 
shrewd business man like Mr. Derrick at the head of affairs, 
he would want to know exactly what was coming in and 
what was going out. Silas, Fm ashamed of you. If I 
wanted to commit a fraud. I’d do it more cleverly than 
that!” 

“There was no fraud,” Silas pleaded feebly, but Lavinia 
passed over the observation in contempt. 

“And what did Derrick say? He suspected, naturally.” 
She knew quite well what Derrick had said, but she wanted 
to hear Silas’s version from Silas’s own lips. 

“I am afraid he did. I made a slip in speaking to him 
the other day. I implied that Dr. Fleming’s subscription 
of twenty pounds had not been paid to me. He seems to 
have inquired, and finds — in short he has asked me to hand 
over the whole sum before Wednesday. Otherwise he says 
that he shall call a meeting, and there would be, I presume, 
some sort of scandal.” 

“You mean that you would be tried for embezzlement, 
and sentenced to a term of penal servitude, like that young 
man in the draper’s shop,” said Miss Wedderburn dryly. 
“It would be a convenience if you would call things by their 
right names.” 

“You are very hard on me, Lavinia. I never meant to 
defraud — ” 

“YTiat does it matter what you intended, if you do the 
thing?” responded Lavinia, cruelly. “Mr. Derrick was 
perfectly right. If you wanted to keep your position and 
your character, you should not have appropriated other 
people’s money.” 

“It would have been paid back in June.” 


A BOLD STROKE. 


267 


“Yes, but it is wanted in May. You’ve been a great fool, 
Silas. And now', I ask you, have you told Frances that it 
is for a debt that you want money, or have you told her the 
truth?” 

“I was obliged to tell her. She would not help me when 
it was only a question of an ordinary debt.” 

“You told her,” said Miss Wedderburn, with emphasis. 
“I did.” 

“Then you are a worse idiot than I took you for. That’s 
all,” said Lavinia. But she meant by her “all” that it was 
a great deal indeed. 

Mr. Wedderburn tried to defend himself. “Nothing else 
made any impression upon her. She seemed to think that a 
debt could stand over. It was only when I pointed out to 
her that ruin stared me in the face that she consented to ask 
Mr. Corbet for the money.” 

“Did you make her promise not to tell Mr. Corbet why 
you w'anted it?” 

“No, I never thought of that.” 

It w'as with positive horror that Lavinia lifted up her 
eyes and hands. “She will tell him everything. And it 
will leak out to the Flemings. And from the Flemings to 
the Derricks. Then all the fat will be in the fire.” 

“No, Lavinia, no. Frances wdll be faithful — if I know 
anything of her nature — ” 

“Which you don’t. Girls are qll alike. She is quite sure 
to tell, sooner or later. Why did you not think, Silas, of 
consulting me?” 

He had thought of it. He did not like, how^ever, to 
acknow'ledge that he had rejected the idea, because he 
thought that to apply to her for help would give her a 
stronger hold upon him than ever. But in his misery, he 
wished that he had done it now^ 

“You might have known,” said Miss Wedderburn, trying 
to make her voice softer, “'that my purse — like ray heart — 
would always be open to you, Silas. I could have procured 
the money for you without difficulty. I am not well off, 


268 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


but I have saved a little — a small sum — which would have 
been at your disposal. But you have not trusted me; and it 
is too late now.” She took out her handkerchief and wiped 
her eyes delicately. “It is your want of confidence that I 
feel, Silas,” she said. 

“I am very sorry, Lavinia. If it had not been that I 
valued your regard — ” 

“But should you not have valued your daughter’s regard 
more than mine, Silas?” said his cousin. “Certainly hers 
would be mere valuable than mine in days to come. She 
will be a wealthy woman, as I know, in the future, and it 
would have been worth while to secure her countenance and 
her esteem in view of the days when she can give without 
consulting anyone.” 

“What do you mean? You have said something of this 
sort before,” cried Mr. Wedderburn. “How is it that Fran- 
ces is going to be rich? How do you know?” 

“Ah, that is my secret. I am afraid that when Frances 
is rich, however, she is not likely to- bestow much money 
upon you, my dear Silas, since you have laid yourself open 
to her contempt.” 

“She has no regard, — no respect — for me at all,” said 
Mr. Wedderburn in a broken voice. “The revelation that 
I made her will produce no great change.” 

“No? Well, perhaps you can hardly wonder at it,” said 
Miss Wedderburn. “You deserted her rather cruelly on 
board that burning ship, did you not? I don’t suppose she 
will ever get over that. You don’t suppose she will, do 
you?” 

“I would rather not discuss the matter with you, Lavinia. 
You are very hard and cruel,” said Silas, with the air of a 
martyr. But he was distressed by the knowledge that what 
she said was true. 

“I speak only for your good,” said Miss Wedderburn. 
“And now I’ll tell you what you had better do. If you 
take this money from Frances, you must make up your 
mind to leave Rushton.” 


A BOLD STROKE. 


269 


“I — I scarcely see the necessity.” 

‘Terhaps not; but I see it, and that ought to be enough 
for you. You will easily get another pastorate. And if 
we start fresh, as man and wife, and you let me manage 
your money affairs for you, you will soon find yourself in 
smooth waters again.” 

“Lavinia,” said the minister, in great confusion of spirit, 
‘‘I cannot marry one who thinks so lightly of me.” 

“But you promised to do it some time ago, and I think, 
Silas, you will have to keep your word.” 

“Yo, no! I would sooner — sooner answer to the law for 
breaking my promise. My feelings are changed, Lavinia. 
It is impossible for me to marry you.” 

“Then,” said Lavinia, a baleful light showing itself in 
her pale blue eyes, “then I will go to Mr. Derrick and expose 
you. I swear I will. ITl tell him all about your debts, and 
the taking of the money, and the way you have made it up; 
and that Frances is your daughter, and that you left her on 
board the burning ship, because you thought that your life 
was too valuable to be lost, and that hers was not valuable 
at all—” 

“Lavinia, you will ruin me!” 

“I mean to ruin you, Silas Wedderburn, if you do not 
keep your word to me.” The short silence that followed 
seemed to make the sentence more impressive. “It’s years 
since you asked me to marry you,” she went on quietly after 
that momentary pause; “and there has been no obstacle to 
our union during the last few months. I have been wait- 
ing and waiting, and I mean to wait no longer. 

“Do you call that-love?” fell from Mr. Wedderburn s 


“The^right kind of love, I call it. Not the love that 
kisses and coaxes, but the love that tries to save a man from 
ruin That’s what I mean to do. You’re a poor creature, 
Silas but if vou will trust to me. I’ll see you through. I 
have no particular desire that any one of my name should 
come to ruin and disgrace. Fix the wedding-day and 1 11 


270 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


be true to you. Break off the engagement, and I go to 
Matthew Derrick first thing on Monday morning. You can 
think it over. You’ll let me know in good time; but o-f 
course I can have no doubt as to what your decision will be. 
You are in that position, Silas, that you really can’t help 
yourself.” And she rose up and went out of the room, leav- 
ing Silas in the clutch of a cold despair. 


BOUND HAND AND FOOT. 


271 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

BOUND HAND AND FOOT. 

Silas refused to come to dinner. Miss Wedderburn did 
not greatly care. She made a good meal, of Irish stew and 
suet dumpling, the usual Saturday dinner in that house; 
and then she settled herself to her needlework in the din- 
ing-room. She fully expected to see Silas entering to^ sub- 
mit himself to her wishes, and to crave her pardon for the 
delay. But hour succeeded hour, and Silas did not come. 

When tea was ready, she determined to take him a cup. 
But she found the door locked, and he would not answer 
her when she knocked and called. Miss Wedderburn’s 
lips looked strained and thin, as she carried the cup of tea 
back to the dining-room. She would not leave it at the 
door on the chance of his coming out for it. If he wanted 
his tea, he must either admit her to the study or come into 
the dining-room. But he made no sign. 

At last, about five o’clock, the quietness of the street was 
broken by the rumbling of wheels. Miss Wedderburn look- 
ed out of the window, and saw that a cab was drawing up 
at the door. And surely it was Frances herself who was 
getting out of it. “She has brought the money,” said La- 
vinia, with a subdued and grim kind of amusement. “I 
think I’ll open the door.” 

But she was passed in the hall by a swift and silent figure 
issuing from the study door. Silas had seen his daughter 
alighting from the cab, and he threw a fiery glance at La- 
vinia as he passed her. Evidently he was not yet in a re- 
pentant state of mind. But Miss Wedderburn had de- 
cided upon her course of action, and meant to carry it out. 
She stepped quietly into the study, so that when Silas and 
his daughter entered the room, she was there to greet them 


273 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


both. She came forward to meet Frances with a smile, and 
held out her hand. Frances hesitated a little before she 
took it. 

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Wedderburn said, in an- 
gry tones. “This is not your place.” 

“Surely my place is with my future husband and my 
step-daughter,” said Lavinia, sweetly. 

Frances started, and fell back a step or two. Then she 
looked at her father with amaze. “This cannot be true, 
surely?” she said. 

The perplexity on Silas’s brow was painful to see. “We 
have spoken of it,” he said, “but nothing is yet decided.” 

“Excuse me,” said Lavinia, “you have no choice.” 

Frances had grown rather pale. “This is a matter with 
which I have nothing to do,” she said. “It is no concern of 
mine.” 

“No concern of yours whom your father marries?” 

“So you know, too?” said Frances, turning to Lavinia in 
surprise. 

“Of course I know. Do you think that your father has 
secrets from me?” 

“I was not aware that he thought of making you his 
wife,” said Frances simply. “I hope you will be happy. I 
v,dll discharge my errand to my father, if you will kindly 
leave us together for a moment or so, and then I will go 
back to King’s Leigh.” 

“Very fine, your dismissing me in that way,” said La- 
vinia. “You think I am of no importance in this house, I 
suppose. Y'ou will soon see your mistake. I shall stay 
here as long as you stay, and you can do your errand in my 
presence. I know well enough what it is.” 

Frances cast a questioning glance at her father. She did 
not know whether to take Miss Wedderburn at her word or 
not. If her father would but have spoken — but he did not 
speak. He stood before her, ghastly pale, with livid marks 
about his eyes and mouth, but without a word of repudia- 
tion or of defense. 


BOUND HAND AND FOOT. 


273 


Frances held out an envelope to him, and he took it with 
a nerveless hand which did not seem able to grasp closely. 
In another moment Miss Wedderburn had sprung upon it 
and wrested it from her cousin. Frances uttered a little 
startled cry. But Mr. Wedderburn seemed incapable of 
protest or resistance of any kind. And in the meantime, 
Lavinia tore open the envelope, and ascertained the nature 
of its contents, 

“I thought so,” she said, with a disagreeable smile. “You 
should have consulted me before you applied to your daugh- 
ter, Silas. The matter is in my hands now, as it ought to 
have been from the beginning.” 

“The matter is practically settled,” said Frances with dig- 
nity. “If I choose to make my father a present, it does not 
concern you.” 

“Oh, everything that concerns Silas concerns me,” re- 
plied Lavinia. “I know what this money is for. It is to 
prevent your father’s ruin and disgrace. He has taken 
what did not belong to him and does not know how to pay 
it back; and you have got the money for him, by betraying 
his secret to Mr. Corbet — ” 

“I have not!” cried Frances. “I have not told Mr. Cor- 
bet a word about it — except that it was for my father.” 

“At any rate, it is in my hands now,” said Miss Wedder- 
burn, with a wicked light in her cold eyes. “So, Silas, you 
can make up your mind.” 

“What is my father to make up his mind about?” said 
Frances quickly. She was beginning to hate this woman, 
this Lavinia Wedderburn, who could make her father suffer 
as she saw that he suffered now. 

“I will tell you,” said Miss Wedderburn, “what he has to 
make up his mind about. It is the old story, whether he 
will behave honestly or not. Generally, it’s not. Your fa- 
ther is not a very estimable character, Frances. He is mean 
and cowardly and deceitful — 

“You shall not call him so to me!” said Frances, in gen- 
erous wrath. 


18 


274 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


«I shall call him what I like. He belongs to me a great 
deal more than he belongs to you. He promised to marry 
me years ago. At first I put him off, because I did not 
wish to leave Miss Kettlewell; lately it has been he that has 
put me off. And I do not mean to be put off any longer.” 

^T)o you mean to marry him if he does not wish to marry 
you?” said Frances scornfully. 

“Yes, my dear, I do. For his own good. I can honestly 
say that it won’t be for mine. But he wants somebody to 
prevent him from sinking lower than he has sunk already, 
and I can do that if I can do nothing else.” 

Then Silas lifted up his gray face and spoke. “You 
will sink me to the nethermost Kell,” he said hoarsely. “If 
I marry you, I shall kill you — sooner or later; you may be 
sure of that.” 

“I’ll take the risk,” said Miss Wedderburn, coolly. “Look 
here: I hold in my hand the notes which you were going to 
put into the bank for Monday. Oh, you can put them in; 
I’ve no objection; but if you refuse to say you’ll marry me, 
I should advise Frances to take them back again. For they 
will be of no good, as regards Silas’s character.” 

“What do you mean?” said Frances. 

“He knows what I mean,” replied Miss Wedderburn, nod- 
ding towards her cousin’s haggard face. “You can see that 
he knows, if you only look at him. He knows that if he 
refuses, I shall go to Mr. Derrick with the whole story, and 
whether he is sent to Jail or not, he’ll be disgraced in the 
eyes of the whole congregation and forced to leave Rushton 
quicker than he came.” 

“You would never be so wicked!” cried Frances, indig- 
nantly. 

“I see no wickedness in it,” Miss Wedderburn protested. 
“We must all fight for our own hand. I fight for mine.” 

“Do you mean to say that after living in his house and 
promising to marry him, you would expose him to ruin and 
disgrace?” 

“If he does not keep his word to me, I will.” 


BOUND HAND AND FOOT. 


275 


‘‘Oh — it is cruel! — ’’ 

“It is for his good,” said Lavinia. “He needs some one 
to take care of him. I will take care of him. But if he 
breaks his word now, I will see that everyone knows his 
true character and his bistoury, from the day when he left 
you on the burning deck, as the poet says — ” 

“You know that, too!” said Frances, recoiling. 

“ — to the day when he asked you for money to pay back 
the sum that he had stolen,” Miss Wedderburn concluded, 
with cold indifference. 

“Father!” cried the girl, “Father, how can you let her 
talk in this way?” 

Silas had crouched down in his big chair, and was hiding 
his face in his hands. At Frances’s cry, he looked up with 
a dazed, bewildered air. Then he wrung his white hands 
helplessly. 

“It’s no use, Frances,” he said. “She has me, body and 
soul. I can’t help myself. I’ll marry her — yes, and then 
I’ll — I’ll kill her or myself; it doesn’t much matter which 
— ” and he dropped his face upon his hands again. 

. All the old feeling of resentment and contempt faded out 
of Frances’s mind as she stood and looked at him, realizing 
perhaps for the first time that he was not only a weak, but 
a most unhappy man. She flew to his side, and laid her 
hand upon his arm. 

“Father, don’t give way to her!” she said. “Never mind 
her threats. She will never dare to carry them out. La- 
vinia Wedderburn,” she said, looking at her cousin with 
flashing eyes, “if you carry out what you have threatened, 
you will live in infamy for the rest of your days.” 

Lavinia shrugged her shoulders and looked at Silas Wed- 
derburn. The words that Frances used were as words 
spoken in an unknown tongue. For what was “infamy.” 
She did not care what people said of her, so long as her own 
purposes were carried out. 

“Father,” Frances said, bending over him, and finally 
kneeling beside him, “do not listen to her. If she speaks. 


276 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


I can speak too. I and Mr. Corbet and the Flemings, we 
will all befriend you. No harm shall come to you from her. 
Say only that you will not marry her; be brave, dear father, 
and defy her, and her malice will be powerless.” 

“Did you ever know your father to be brave?” said La- 
vinia, scoffingly. But Frances turned a deaf ear to her 
now. 

“Father,” she went on eagerly. “I will give myself to 
you. I vull come and live with you if you like. I will be 
the very best daughter in the world. Only tell this woman 
to go — tell her you will have nothing to do with her, and 
I will protect you. I am sure I can. There are other places 
beside Eushton in the world where we can be happy.” 

“But the story will follow you wherever you go,” said 
Miss Wedderburn quietly, “you will never be able to escape 
from it. If once it is known, Silas Wedderburn will never 
be able to hold up his head again.” 

Then Silas roused himself a little, and looked with wild 
eyes into his daughter’s face. 

“It is true, what she says, Frances. I can’t deny it. 
Even if I went away, there would be no peace for me. She 
has fixed my fate. I must marry her — and lose my soul 
with her. It is too late for you to save me now.” 

“It is not too late, father. I am quite sure that Mr. Cor- 
bet and I could make it all right with Mr. Derrick. He is a 
kind man at heart. Father, trust to me. Let me stay with 
you. Tell Cousin Lavinia to pack her boxes and go. We 
shall have no peace or happiness while she is here.” 

“You are a bold girl,” said Miss Wedderburn, with some- 
thing like complacency in her tone. “I bear you no malice 
for what you say against me, Frances. Y'ou fight well 
for your own side.” 

“Father — speak; fight for yourself,” said Frances. But 
her father only dro-pped his head against her arm and 
sighed. 

“He has no fight in him,” said Lavinia, quietly. “He 
never had. He’s a weak man who wants a support. I’ll be 


BOUND HAND AND FOOT. 


277 


that support to him, and I’ll never fail him — if he marries 
me.” 

‘‘You see, Frances,” said the man, hoarsely. “You see I 
cannot help myself.” 

You can! You can! Father, tell her to go away, and 
trust to me.” 

“You are only a girl,” moaned Mr. Wedderburn. “What 
can you do? You cannot stay the processes of law, if once 
they are set in motion. You cannot give me back my good 
name, if I lose it. I am bound hand and foot.” 

“That is the first sensible word you have said to-day.” 
remarked his cousin, with approval. “Bound hand and 
foot — so you are. I am glad you acknowledge it.” 

“Bound hand and foot,” repeated Silas, pressing his 
hand to his forehead, and looking round him wildly. “Go, 
child, go! You mean kindly, but you have come too late. I 
must do what she tells me, or I am lost.” 

“Exactly,” said Miss Wedderburn. “And now, Frances, 
if I were you, I would go. There is no use in your staying; 
and there is not room for both of us in the house, I think. I 
dare say I shall see more of you by and by.” 

“I hope not. I have no desire to see anything of you at 
all. Father, must I go?” 

“Yes, go, go; there is nothing to be done,” said Mr. Wed- 
derburn. She rose to her feet and looked at him for a 
moment, with despair written on her face. He was not a 
man that could be helped. Yet in that hour of his weak- 
ness, her heart went out to him, and she would have helped 
him and saved him if he had let her have her way. 

Finally, she kissed him on the forehead — she had never 
thought before that she could bring herself to this — and 
went slowly and lingeringly out of the house in which she 
had been forbidden to remain. 


278 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A SUNDAY GOSSIP. 

Frances’s absence had occasioned Mrs. Fleming no little 
anxiety, in spite of the fact that Dr. Fleming returned early 
in the afternoon to explain that she had gone to see her 
guardian. 

‘‘And why should she go to see her guardian?” said Mrs. 
Fleming, “What is going on? There seems to me to be 
something in the air which I cannot understand.” 

“There are more things in heaven and earth than are 
dreamt of in thy philosophy, my Margaret,” said the doc- 
tor. “Leave Frances alone; she is in a very difficult posi- 
tion, as you will acknowledge when you know the truth.” 

“There is nothing wrong, is there, Tom?” 

“Nothing in the sense of wrong-doing, that I am aware 
of, my dear; certainly nothing wrong on Frances’s part. It 
is one of those complications of life which we cannot avoid 
or avert. The wisest thing Frances could do was to go and 
talk to Laurence about it all, I fancy.” 

“I suppose,” said Mrs. Fleming, after a pause for reflec- 
tion, “that it is something about Frances’s parentage and 
family?” 

“Possibly,” said the doctor. Then, with a twinkle in his 
eye. “You don’t get any secrets out of me, my dear. But 
I have no doubt that either Laurence or Frances will tell 
you in good time.” 

“You don’t mean to say that Frances is going to marry 
him?” 

“Marry him? marry whom?” 

“Oh, perhaps I ought not to tell you,” said Mrs. Fleming, 
with an increase of color in her gentle face. “Still, I think 


A SUNDAY GOSSIP. 


279 


Laurence generally expects me to tell you everything. He 
wanted to marry Frances, and she refused him.” 

“Sensible girl!” said the doctor. “He’s too old for her.” 

“Do you think so? He is very young for his age, and he 
seems bent on it.” 

“Well, I daresay he seems old to Frances. A girl like 
her thinks every man over thirty an antediluvian. And 
by the way, how are those two young people in Mayfair get- 
ting on? Does Milly never intend to come hack at all?” 

“Not just yet, I think,” said Mrs. Fleming a little rue- 
fully. “She is enjoying herself very much, and Lady 
Hernesdale is very kind to her.” 

“I wonder if Lady Hernesdale would be as kind if Milly 
hadn’t a penny-piece. Hardly!” 

“Don’t attribute had motives, Tom. I really think that 
we misjudged Lady Hernesdale in the old days when I used 
to accuse her of snubbing us.” 

“I should not much like her to be tried,” said the doctor 
cynically. 

It was evening before Frances came back to King’s 
Leigh in the White Hart fly, and Mrs. Fleming saw at once 
that she was excited and overwrought. Her face was pale 
and her eyes showed signs of tears The day had evidently 
been a trying one to her, and Mrs. Fleming at once put 
away any feelings of anger or suspicion that had stolen, 
even for a moment, into her gentle heart, and lavished all 
her tenderness upon the girl. Frances was easy to man- 
age. She accepted with gratitude Mrs. Fleming’s proposal 
that she should not come down to dinner; and she allowed 
herself to be put to bed and dosed with the soup and port- 
wine which the doctor immediately prescribed. She was 
either very unwell, or in great trouble; and nobody could 
exactly say what ailed her. She avowed herself very tired, 
yet when Mrs. Fleming stole in to see if she had fallen 
asleep, she found the girl wide awake, with eyes which 
seemed as if they could never close. 


580 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘TDon’t you think I had better ask my husband for some- 
thing to make you sleep, dear?” 

“No, thank you; I never take anything of that kind. I 
daresay I shall sleep presently.” 

“Shall I come in again later and see?” 

“No, thank you, dear Mrs. Fleming; you are so very, 
very kind.” 

“I should like to help you, dear, if only I knew how.” 

“You are all so good to me,” said Frances, turning away 
her face. Then, after a little pause, “I would tell you 
everything that troubles me if it were not that other people 
are concerned. One thing in particular I should like you 
to know. But Laurence asked me not to speak of it just 
yet. Perhaps by and by — ” 

“But it is not that which troubles you, is it?” said Mrs. 
Fleming believing her to allude to Laurence’s proposal of 
marriage. 

“No, not so much. But there are several things — and I 
must not speak of them. Dear Mrs. Fleming, only don’t 
think me ungrateful and ill-behaved; I know I have not 
seemed like other girls — I have been willful and inclined to 
take my own way; but it was not always my fault. I have 
been obliged to do what I did not like to do,” — and then 
Frances’s composure gave way, and her sentence ended in 
a burst of tears. 

“Dear child, I am sure nobody wants tO' coerce you into 
doing what you do not wish. Laurence would be the last 
person to urge his claim, if he thought that it made you 
unhappy.” 

“His claim?” said Frances, drying her eyes. “Oh — you 
know about — that?” 

“He told me. He is sincerely attached to you, Frances, 
and would make you very happy.” 

“It — it isn’t that which troubles me,” said Frances, 
rather enigmatically; and Mrs. Fleming found herself 
obliged to retire, without asking further questions. 

She could not resist the temptation, however, of confid- 


A SUNDAY GOSSIP. 


281 


ing her doubts and anxieties to Chloe. She had always 
told everything to Chloe; the mother and daughter had 
been like sisters, ever since Chloe left school at seventeen. 
And it was to Chloe that she turned for comfort now. 

“Can you understand Frances, Chloe?” 

“Understand her, mother? Yes, I think so. Frances 
is very candid.” 

“I should have said just the contrary. She seems to me 
exceedingly reserved.” 

“That is just why she is so unhappy just now,” said Chloe 
with a smile. “She has something on her mind that she 
can’t tell us, and is naturally so candid that she cannot bear 
to keep a secret from us, and so she is miserable. I think 
nobody is so wretched as the frank and open person who is 
obliged to keep a secret for the sake of other people.” 

‘TTou may be right,” said Mrs. Fleming slowly. “Though 
how you are so wise, I do not know. But it is unnatural 
for a girl of that age to have secrets to keep; to tell the 
truth, Chloe, I do not like it, and if Milly were at home I 
should wish to see the last of Frances.” 

“Oh mother dear, isn’t that rather hard of you?” said 
Chloe sweetly. “Poor Frances cannot help it, and it is just 
because she is so truthful that she worries herself. I can 
see that, from the little things she drops.” 

‘TTou mean that she is really concealing something from 
us which perhaps we ought to know?” 

“Mr. Corbet knows,” said Chloe. “And I think father 
does; so we must wait our turn. It can’t be anything very 
bad when Laurence Corbet wants to marry her, and she is 
such a favorite with father. Don’t you see how fond father 
is growing of her?” 

“Yes, I see,” said Mrs. Fleming, “and I suppose I am 
uncharitable. But I never did like secrets.” 

“And yet we all have secrets to keep,” said Chloe 
dreamily. 

“Not you, Chloe!” said her mother, half reproachfully. 


282 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Chloe started, and looked at Mrs. Fleming for a moment 
before she replied. Then she colored and turned away. 

“Well, perhaps I am the exception,” she said as she went 
back into the house, leaving her mother on the terrace 
where an encampment had been made for the Sunday after- 
noon. Frances was lying down in her room, and Mrs. 
Fleming supposed that Chloe had gone to look after her, so 
that she comfortably resumed the reading of a magazine 
which had been laid face downwards on her lap, and waited 
patiently for the coming of afternoon tea. Presently a ser- 
vant brought out a table and a white cloth, then came the 
silver tray with the silver kettle bubbling over the blue 
flame of the spirit lamp, then tea and cake and bread and 
butter. But as yet nobody except Mrs. Fleming seemed to 
desire any tea. 

Presently her husband appeared, fresh from Rushton, 
where he had been to see some of his patients. He settled 
himself in a basket-chair, accepted a cup of tea from his 
wife’s hand and then said, in a surprised tone — 

“But where are the girls?” 

“They are coming. Frances has been to sleep, and Chloe 
has gone to fetch her. In the meantime, I see another visi- 
tor coming down the avenue. It is Laurence; I am so 
glad!” 

“Yes, that’s right,” said the doctor, putting down his cup 
and rising from his chair. He went down the terrace steps 
between the great stone vases, already filled with flowering 
plants, and met the visitor with whom he shook hands cor- 
dially. 

“Glad to see you, Laurence. I was thinking you might 
be coming over.” 

“Oh, did you?” said Laurence, who knew what this re- 
mark signified. “Margaret, how are you? You look very 
cosy out here. Warm weather for May, is it not? And 
how are you all?” 

His eye rapidly explored the terraoe; he was evidently 


A SUNDAY GOSSIP. 


283 


looking for Frances, and Mrs. Fleming answered the un- 
spoken question. 

“Frances had a headache to-day; she has been lying 
down. I think she overtired herself yesterday.” 

“Ah, yes, she came over to see me,” said Laurence inci- 
dentally, “it was a long drive.” 

He avoided looking at Dr. Fleming. But the doctor was 
looking at him rather intently. 

“IVe just been into town,” the doctor remarked, “and 
seen Matthew Derrick; he seems very much worried.” 

“What about?” 

“His minister,” said Dr. Fleming dryly. Then Laurence 
looked at him, and a curiously confidential relation was im- 
mediately established between the two men. 

“The minister? Is not that Mr. Wedderbum?” said 
Margaret innocently. 

“Yes, Mr. Wedderbum. It seems he is ill. Could not 
preach this morning, and they had a great difficulty in get- 
ting anyone to take his place.” 

“111?” repeated Laurence thoughtfully. “What’s the 
matter with him?” 

Mrs. Fleming had turned her back to speak to a servant. 
The doctor made a hasty reply in an undertone, which he 
did not mean his wife to hear. 

“Conscience, I think,” he said. Then, in a louder tone, 
“Derrick wanted me to go and see him, but I said I couldn’t 
very well go without being sent for, you know. Mental 
work and worry, I expect.” 

“Here come the girls at last,” said Mrs. Fleming, who 
had not been attending much to the colloquy between the 
men; and she rose to meet them, while Laurence said hur- 
riedly to the doctor — 

“Don’t say more about Wedderbum than you can 
help when Frances is here. Tell me afterwards what you 
mean.” 

“All right. Poor girl. I’m sorry for her.” 

Laurence turned from him impatiently. It was to him 


284 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


one of the trials of the position that people would always 
be ‘‘sorry” for Frances when the truth was known. 

He was shocked at his ward’s appearance. She had been 
pale and agitated when he had seen her on the previous 
day, but now she looked positively ill. She was perfectly 
white, with great shadows round her eyes. But when he 
held her hand and questioned her with anxiety as to her 
health, she declared herself better — thanks to Dr. Flem- 
ing’s medicine and Mrs. Fleming’s care. “I shall soon be 
quite well, it was only a nervous headache,” she said, seat- 
ing herself in the chair that the doctor indicated and ac- 
cepting a cup of tea. 

“And when are you coming home,” said Laurence. 
“When can you spare her, Mrs. Fleming? I think she had 
better come back to Denstone.” 

Frances’s face flushed visibly. “We have made no plans, 
I think,” she said, glancing at Mrs. Fleming. 

“She had better go to the seaside for a few weeks,” said 
Dr. Fleming with decision. “She wants bracing up.” 

“Oh, no,” said Frances hastily. “Indeed, I don’t need, 
to go to the seaside. I would a great deal rather stay near 
Eushton.” 

W^hen she had said the words, a flood of hot color invaded 
her face. She was in so sensitive a state, that the slightest 
emotion made itself visible by her blood. Everyone re- 
marked the sudden blush and inwardly commented on it. 
Mrs. Fleming felt distressfully certain that there was some- 
thing wrong; Chloe said to herself that she often blushed at 
nothing, especially when she was not well, and that Frances 
probably had blushed at nothing too. Laurence and the 
doctor, who knew only too well the origin of that sudden 
scarlet flood, looked down and said nothing. The subject 
of the seaside was dropped by common consent and the 
party proceeded to talk of the most recent novel. 

WTien tea was over, Laurence managed to get his host 
away into the garden, out of Frances’s hearing. “Well,” 
he said, “Tom, what do you mean?” 


A SUNDAY GOSSIP. 


285 


'T! mean — youVe been a confounded ass, Laurence.” 

“I daresay. In what particular manner?” 

‘‘Why about that poor girl. You have shilly-shallied 
over her until she is let in for half a dozen complications. 
If she Avas not to be called Wedderburn you should have 
called her Smith, Brown, Jones, anything but Corbet. To 
associate her with your own family will make it all the 
worse when the truth comes out. It’s such a come-down 
for her, don’t you see?” 

“She has always known the truth,” said Laurence dryly. 

“As if that makes it any better for her! And then to 
bring her to Eushton, where her father himself was liv- 
ing!” 

“I did not know that till after our arrival.” 

“Oh, you didn’t? I thought that might be part of your 
scheme, perhaps. You ought to have moved heaven and 
earth to get him away. It’s upset her nerves — perhaps for 
life.” 

“No, no; Frances is too sensible for that.” 

“It’s not a matter of sense; it’s nervous organization. Do 
you suppose you can treat a young girl like a man? It is 
nothing for you to despise Wedderburn — I conclude he is 
to be despised from the way you have treated him but to 
bring up his daughter to despise him also, and then to let 
her see him, hear him preach, visit him— you must know 
very little of a sensitive girl to think that all that would 
not break her down.” 

“I would give her all I have — name and all if she would 
have me, to make amends. But — one moment what did 
you say about Derrick and Wedderburn? Nothing wrong 

in that quarter?” . , . , 

“Well, I can hardly say,” returned the doctor dubiously. 
“Derrick told me nothing— thought he told me nothing, at 
any rate. But he dropped one or two words— Do you know 
at all through Frances or any other source, whether Wed- 
derburn is troubled about money matters?” 

“Hum. Is that a fair question?” 


286 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Perhaps not. Let it pass. Derrick is troubled about 
him — seems to suspect something, that is all. He let some- 
thing fall about the chapel funds — ” 

“Oh, confound him!” said Laurence. “Tell him he’ll be 
sued for libel if he does not shut up.” 

But he felt certain that he knew now why Frances had 
given her father that hundred pounds. 


▲ BROKEN MAN. 


287 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A BROKEN MAN. 

In three or four days Frances was fairly well again, al- 
though still a little pale and anxious-looking; and Dr. Flem- 
ing, meeting Laurence in the street, was able to reassure 
him on the score of her health. 'Tf she has no more worry 
or bother,” he said, ‘‘she will be all right.” 

“Have you heard anything fresh about Wedderburn?” 

“No. Have you?” 

“Not much. But Derrick’s all right again. Looks as 
though ten years had been taken off his age. Whatever it 
may have been, I think it’s put straight now.” 

“Yes, with Frances’s money,” said Laurence to himself, 
rather bitterly. Then aloud: “I think I shall go and see 
Wedderburn myself.” 

“If you’ve anything to propose, go by all means. I sup- 
pose you don’t mean simply a little friendly call?” 

“I would give him an income for life, if he’d clear out of 
Rushton.” 

“You are playing Derrick’s game. Derrick wants him to 
go.” 

“Eh? You said it was all right with him.” 

“Yes? the burden’s removed. There’ll be no scandal, if 
you mean that sort of thing. But Derrick is an earnest 
man, somewhat devout in his rough way, and he has lost 
faith in Wedderburn.” 

“I hardly wonder at that.” 

“And then there’s another thing,” said the doctor, 
rather hesitatingly. “You ought to know it before you go 
to the house. Mr. Wedderburn is going to marry his cousin. 
You know, the estimable lady who was found ransacking 
Miss Kettlewell’s drawers on the night she died.” 


288 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Laurence shrugged his shoulders. “I think they will be 
well matched/^ he said carelessly. “Probably it was this 
that tended to upset Frances. Well I am glad I know it 
before I go.” 

“You mean to go now?” 

“I had that idea in my mind.” 

“Talk quietly to him. Don’t bully the man.” 

“Do I ever bully any one?” 

“You know what I mean. Don’t abuse him and bully- 
rag him to his face. Yes, I’ve known you to do that when 
your blood was up and you were a few years younger. But 
Wedderburn has a weak heart. So spare him if you can.” 

Laurence was rather inclined to scorn the warning, but 
he remembered it when he found himself in Silas Wedder- 
burn’s study a few minutes later. The minister was doing 
nothing. He sat in a chair drawn up to the table, with an 
open manuscript book before him, but the page was blank. 
His face was pale; his eyes had a sunken look. He seemed 
to have lost flesh, and his black clothes had wrinkles which 
used not to show in his more self-satisfied days. But the 
change in his appearance did not prepossess Laurence in 
his favor. He only thought that the man looked sallow, 
and wondered whether he ever took opium. He had seen 
that glassy look in the eyes of an opium-eater many a time. 

As it happened, he was wrong. Silas Wedderburn had 
never touched opium in his life. 

When Mr. Corbet was announced, the minister rose awk- 
wardly to his feet, and gasped out something which might 
be meant for a welcome, though it did not sound much 
like one. Then he made a motion, quavering and uncer- 
tain, with his hand. But as Mr. Corbet did not notice it, 
he let it fall to his side again, and stood, spiritless and 
crushed, as Laurence thought, with his left hand on the 
back of his chair. 

“It is a long time since we met, Mr. Wedderburn,” said 
the visitor, seating himself coolly, with his hat and stick on 
his knee. 


A BROKEN MAN. 


289 


“Very long/’ said Silas, looking round him covertly, as 
if for some means of escape. As there seemed to be none, 
he collapsed into his chair again and sighed. 

“I need make no special reference to the time when we 
parted,” said Laurence, with a slight, ironical smile; “the 
circumstances were peculiar and have always — to me — 
seemed painful. Possibly the saving of your Valuable life/ 
as I remember you then termed it, may afford you a pleas- 
anter recollection of the scene.” 

Silas stirred in his chair. His face grew a shade yel- 
lower, but he seemed resolved not to speak. His silence 
embittered Laurence against him; he would not have con- 
tinued to speak so mockingly if the man had but tried to 
say a word in his own defense. 

“The child whose life you were prepared to sacrifice for 
your own,” he said, “fell to my great satisfaction into my 
hands. I saved her — not having perhaps so great a regard 
for my own skin as her father had for his, and did not at- 
tempt to give her back to him. I argued — rightly, I think 
— that her portion would probably be that of poverty and 
neglect. So I took her away with me, educated her, made 
her life as happy as I knew hew, and then brought her to 
my home at Denstone. I do not think that in the mean- 
time you made any effort to find your daughter, Mr. Wed- 
derburn.” 

“On my soul, sir, I thought she was dead,” said Silas, 
with sudden passion. 

“And that, in that case, you were her murderer?” Lau- 
rence asked. 

He had not meant to put that question, although he had 
often in his heart accused Wedderburn of potential murder. 
The minister looked at him with a livid face. 

“What else was it,” Laurence asked hotly, “when you left 
her to perish by fire or tempest, robbing her of her place in 
the boat that came to save her, crying out that your con- 
temptible life was more valuable than hers? Have you re- 
pented of that sin, I wonder, when you preach to sinners 

19 


290 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


from your pulpit?” Then he pulled himself up suddenly. 
“That was not what I came to say, however. I apologize for 
my incivility. It is not my part, of course, to point out to 
you how honest men regard these things.” 

A dull red flush crept into Silas Wedderburn’s face; it 
spread until it reached the very roots of his thick black 
hair, and when it faded, it left blotches on the sickly white 
of his complexion. For a moment, Laurence felt a keen 
pleasure in the thought that he had penetrated the thick 
skin of the man’s complacent vanit}^ that he had punished 
him, if ever so little, for his cowardice and selfishness; then, 
with a sudden revulsion of feeling, he felt ashamed of him- 
self. The man was Frances’s father after all. And he had 
not meant to reproach him for following out a course which 
had been, in the long run, of so much importance to Fran- 
ces and himself. 

“I came to speak of other matters,” he said, resuming the 
coldness of his first manner. ‘T do not suppose that Fran- 
ces has mentioned to you the fact that I have asked her to 
become my wife.” 

Silas started a little, and answered, in a hoarse, rough 
voice. 

“She said nothing to me about it.” 

“She has not accepted me,” Laurence said, “and perhaps 
she never will. But it has occurred to me that as you hap- 
pen to be her father, and as she is under age, it might be 
advisable to secure your — consent. I presume you have no 
objections?” 

“None. Of course — none.” 

“When she is twenty-one she will be her own mistress. I 
have settled enough upon her to afford her a small indepen- 
dence, and she can marry whom she will. But before the 
age of twenty-one, she will be still under my guardianship; 
and I suppose I may assume that there will be no neces- 
sity to consult you further respecting her marriage or es- 
tablishment in life? She has been in my hands ever since 


, A BROKEN MAN. 


291 


she was nine years old; it is only a form to ask you whether 
you have any wish to resume your parental rights?” 

Mr. Wedderburn turned away his head, and allowed a 
sort of groan to escape his white lips. “You might spare 
me these questions, sir, I think,” he said. “You must 
know that I have no desire to interfere.” 

“Very well,” said Laurence promptly. “Then in my 
turn I have something to demand. As her guardian, I re- 
quest, Mr. Wedderburn, that you will not henceforward mo- 
lest my ward by applications to her for money.” 

Silas made a bound to his feet. His eyes glared angrily 
for a moment. Then he sank down again, breathing hard, 
and pressing his hand to his heart. Mr. Corbet, if he no- 
ticed these movements at all, put them down to affectation, 
and proceeded in the sternest and coldest tones. 

“At my ward’s request, I advanced her the sum for which 
she asked; but, note my words, Mr. Wedderburn, I shall 
not do it again. When her money is under her own con- 
trol, she can do as she pleases; but upon my soul. I’d rather 
tie it up till she is twenty-five than give her the chance of 
throwing it away upon you. Did it never occur to you, sir, 
what a dastardly part you play when you try to prey upon 
the future of that daughter whom you basely abandoned in 
the hour of peril?” 

“For God’s sake, stop, sir,” cried Silas Wedderburn, evi- 
dently almost beside himself. “I have no intention of ask- 
ing her for money again; it was only that I was at the very 
point of ruin — and not only of ruin, but disgrace — when I 
begged her to hold out a helping hand. You yourself would 
not have cared to see me undergoing — undergoing — ” 

“The punishment you deserved,” said Laurence with a 
cold smile. “I am not sure that I should have particularly 
regretted it. You are not known to be Frances’s father, 
you see. In view of further temptation, I have a proposi- 
tion to make to you. I don’t know whether it has occur- 
red to you that you are not especially well fitted to be the 
pastor of souls and preacher of the Gospel in this chapel 


292 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


here at Rushton — or, indeed, of any other place of wor- 
ship?” 

Silas looked at him, with despair in his eyes. “I have 
been writing my resignation to Mr. Derrick,” he said. 

“You have! I am glad to hear it — the first sign of sin- 
cerity I have seen in the man,” said Laurence to himself. 
“I propose then, Mr. Wedderburn, that you should accept 
from me a sum sufficient for your needs and those of your 
wife, as I hear you are about to be married, and go to some 
place — some distant place — where we shall never hear of 
you again. Go to America! go to Italy! — no, we might run 
against you there — go to the South Sea Islands! I will 
give you, to the half of my kingdom, anything you ask, so 
that we do not see you or hear of you again.” 

“Is this my daughter’s wish as well as yours?” asked 
Wedderburn. 

“I have not consulted her. I do not mean to consult 
her. She has distressed herself sufficiently; and I tell you, 
sir, I will not have her distressed. Take what you please, 
and go.” 

“No,” said Silas, a strange agitation making itself visi- 
ble in his face and manner, “no, no — I can take nothing 
from you.” 

“Better to take from me than ^'rom Frances, or — from 
your chapel funds,” said Laurence. The last clause was 
a shot at a venture; but he dared it, for Frances’s sake. 

Mr. Wedderburn threw up his hands. “She has betrayed 
me! She has told you everything!” he cried, clutching at 
his throat. “Oh, God in heaven, this is more than I can 
bear!” 

He rose to his feet, staggering, stumbling, with one fist 
clenched as if he would have shaken it in Laurence’s face; 
and Laurence rose too and caught at him to support him, 
fully conscious now of the mischief that he had done. Dr. 
Fleming’s words returned to him with full force, when he 
looked at the terribly livid hue of the man’s face, at the 


A BROKEN MAN. 


293 


clutching fighting hands, the half-closed eye. Was Mr. 
W edderbum going to die at his feet, in his presence, as a 
consequence of Laurence’s own cruel and bitter words? It 
would be too awful an end, surely; it was only a passing at- 
tack of illness; he would be better soon, 

Mr. Corbet managed to get one hand free, and rang the 
bell furiously. It was answered at once; almost it seemed 
as if Lavinia Wedderburn had been waiting to come in. She 
cast one furious glance at the visitor, then rushed to the 
assistance of her cousin. It was plain that she knew what 
to do. She extracted from his breast-pocket a small bottle 
from which she poured a few drops for him to inhale; then, 
when the gasps died down, and the clayey hue of his com- 
plexion became less death-like, she told the guest where to 
find brandy and other remedies, which were kept in a little 
cupboard beside the fire. In a little while, consciousness 
returned, and when Laurence had assisted Miss Wedder- 
burn in placing the patient in an easy position on the sofa, 
he took his hat and prepared to leave the house. 

‘‘Can I send to Dr. Fleming? I shall be glad to do any- 
thing I can for Mr. Wedderburn,” he said to Lavinia, with 
remorseful sincerity. But Lavinia shook her head. 

“I don’t think we want you to do any more for us, Mr. 
Corbet. You’ve done enough for the present. You’ve 
been pretty near the death of him, that’s what it is,” said 
Miss Wedderburn, losing her command of elegant English 
at this anxious moment of her life, 

“I hope not,” said Laurence politely; and he then march- 
ed away, evidently to Miss Wedderburn’s great relief. 

“A terrible pair,” he said to himself as he went down 
the street, “But I did not want to kill the man. I ought 
to have remembered Fleming’s warning. I’ll confess to 
him when I see him again. After all, much as I detest this 
fellow Wedderburn, it came to me once or twice when I 
was talking to him that I was rather a brute. I hope he’ll 
take the money and go, without any pretense of fiue feel- 


294 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


ings or gratitude. My poor Frances she would not like it 
if she had heard me to-day. But I could not help it; and 
as a matter of fact, if the interview had to be repeated, I 
am not sure whether I might not do it again. And yet, I 
don’t know. If I am not mistaken, Silas Wedderburn is a 
broken man.” 


THE THROWING OF A BOMB. 


295 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE THROWING OF A BOMB. 

“What is it?” said Mrs. Fleming, to a maid who had ap- 
proached her with a very flurried appearance. “What is 
the matter, Mary?” 

“If you please, ma’am, a lady wants to see you,” was 
the utterly inadequate reply. 

“Well?” said her mistress. But Mary looked away, and 
tried to seem unconscious. “Who is it, Mary?” 

“If you please ma’am, she said I wasn’t to give her 
name.” 

Chloe and Frances both looked up. There was a 
suggestion of something mysterious in the girl’s tone. 

“And she said, ma’am, would Miss Corbet and Miss 
Fleming please come too; as she had something very par- 
ticular to say.” 

“Who can it be?” said Chloe. 

“Some one wanting subscriptions, I should think. Come 
or not, as you like; I will go and interview this nameless 
personage,” said Mrs. Fleming with a smile. 

“Shall we go Frances? It may be interesting — or amus- 
ing. At any rate, it is something to do.” 

Frances had been listlessly dreaming over a book. She 
rose now, and smiled back an assent which had little alert- 
ness in it. In fact, a great deal of her old vivacity and alert- 
ness had disappeared; and Chloe was constantly on the out- 
look to invent occupations and interests for her. She drew 
her hand within her arm, and led her to the morning room, 
whither the mysterious lady had been bestowed. 

But there was no mystery about the matter when the 
girls reached the room. Mrs. Fleming, with indignation 
aflame upon her cheek, was standing opposite a figure 


296 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


which had once been well known in the house of King’s 
Leigh — that of Lavinia Wedderburn. Even Frances start- 
ed when she saw it, and would have gone back, had not 
Chloe gently drawn her forward into the room. 

Miss Wedderburn presented all her old neatness and gen- 
tility of appearance. She wore a plain black dress, a 
beaded mantle, a bonnet of black and red, beneath 
which her black hair waved on either side of her high fore- 
head. Her gloves were black, and in her hand she car- 
ried a reticule. She looked solemnly respectable and even 
distinguished. But there was a little smile, in which lurk- 
ed malice, on her thin-lipped jnouth. 

She bowed to Chloe and Frances without rising; for al- 
though Mrs. Fleming stood, she continued to occupy her 
chair with undisturbed tranquillity. She looked as if no 
earthly power would suffice to move her from that chair, if 
she did not mean to leave it. And Mrs. Fleming resented 
the attitude which her guest had taken up. 

asked for Mrs. Fleming by mistake,” said Miss Wed- 
derburn quite calmly. “Of course it was Miss Fleming that 
I desired to see. Miss Fleming and Miss Millicent Flem- 
ing are the present owners of this house, I believe. I have 
lived in it under very different auspices,” and Miss Wed- 
derburn looked round her pensively, and heaved a very ar- 
tificial sigh. 

“I do not know what you have to say to me. Miss Wed- 
derburn,” said Chloe gravely. She touched her mother 
gently on the arm. “Go away, dear mother, if you like, 
and leave Miss Wedderburn to me. You do not know her 
so well as I do.” 

“I should prefer that Mrs. Fleming remained, although 
I address myself to Miss Fleming,” said Lavinia, woodenly. 
“I have a communication to make which will interest both 
of you extremely.” 

“I had better go,” said Frances, in a low tone to Chloe. 
“It can have nothing to do with me.” It was extremely 
painful to her to be present at a conversation, which 


THE THROWING OF A BOMB. 


297 


seemed likely to assume the character of a wordy duel, be- 
tween her cousin and her friend. But again Miss Wedder- 
burn intervened. 

“It is of especial interest to you,” she said, “and there- 
fore I beg that you will remain. It would have given me 
pleasure if Dr. Fleming had been at home, and Miss Milli- 
cent also. I am going to tell you something that will in- 
terest you very much.” 

Her commanding manner took them all by surprise. Nat- 
urally they resented it, and yet they did not like to walk 
out of the room and refuse to listen to the “interesting” 
communication that she wished to make. 

Frances turned very -pale. She believed that she was 
going to listen to something about her father and herself. 

“I am in a very awkward position,” said Miss Wedder- 
burn; but she did not look as though she thought so; “and 
I desire to extricate myself from it as soon as possible. 
Wlien poor dear Miss Kettlewell died, her mind was pre- 
judiced, and she believed the accusations which were lev- 
eled against myself. But in happier days, she was in the 
habit of making me small presents. You may remember. 
Miss Fleming, various occasions on which I received small 
and unimportant gifts from Miss Kettlewell. You were at 
any rate present on the occasion to which I wish to refer, 
when she presented me with this — this old-fashioned work- 
bag or reticule.” 

She lifted up the silk-embroidered bag which she carried 
in her hands, and displayed it to Chloe’s astonished eyes. 

“Yes,” said the girl. “I remember it. I remember her 
giving it to you.” 

Miss A\^edderburn bowed her head. “I am glad of an in- 
dependent witness,” she said. “Particularly glad. She 
remarked at the time, as you may remember, that the bag 
was quite worn out, that it was no use to her, that the lining 
was torn, and that therefore I might have it, as I was fond 
of odds and ends; you may recollect the speeches that your 


298 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


esteemed relation was in the habit of making on similar oc- 
casions?” 

‘‘I remember,” said Chloe with dignity, “that my cousin 
was often very kind to you. Miss Wedderburn.” 

Miss Wedderburn sniffed eontemptuously, “Some peo- 
ple’s kindness cost them very little,” she said. “Odds and 
ends. She gave me the bag three weeks only before she 
died, and I put it away and never looked at it again. You 
can examine it for yourself, if you like. The lining is torn 
you will observe, all down one side.” 

“I see that it is.” 

“I put it away because I wished to efface all memory of 
Miss Kettlewell from my heart. I was disgusted with her 
behavior to me. You need not. try to interrupt me, Mrs. 
Fleming; I know what I am saying, and I shall go on to the 
end. Only the other day did I come across this bag again; 
and it was then that I examined it for the first time since it 
was first put into my hands. I found between the silk and 
the lining, a certain piece of paper.” 

Chloe’s eyes lightened; a sudden gleam of intelligence 
had come into her face. She almost smiled. “Go on. Miss 
Wedderburn,” she said. 

“That paper,” said Miss Wedderburn impressively, “was 
the last will and testament of Keturah Kettlewell.” 

“Oh, this is abominable! this is bare-faced lying,” said 
Mrs. Fleming, with quick, sudden wrath. “Really it is too 
much — ” 

“Wait, mother,” said Chloe. “Let us hear Miss Wed- 
derburn’s statement to the end.” 

“I could not believe my eyes,” said Lavinia, with a ma- 
licious smile. “I read and re-read, before I could under- 
stand. I took it at last to a lawyer, Mr. Cockburn in the 
High street and he made the matter clear to me. It was 
what is called a tolograph will, that is, written in the testa- 
tor’s own handwriting, duly signed and witnessed by two 
of her servants; dated only four weeks before her death. 


THE THROWING OP A BOMB. 


299 


Later, therefore, than the will by which the two Miss Flem- 
ings inherited the property.” 

“You will say next that it is left to yourself,” said Mrs. 
Fleming, with a trembling laugh. She could not help see- 
ing that Chloe believed the story. 

“Oh, no, it is not left to myself,” said Miss Wedderburn 
graciously, “although it is left to someone in whom I take a 
very particular interest. It is left to a young lady then 
staying at Denstone, a lady who passes under the name of 
Frances Corbet, but is well known to be not Mr. Corbet’s 
relation at all.” 

“What? It is not true! It cannot be true!” exclaimed 
Mrs. Fleming. Frances looked as if she were about to fainr. 
Chloe, with a sudden, brilliant smile, as if she had heard 
good news, put her arm round her friend’s waist, and seated 
her in the nearest chair. “Left to Frances?” she inquired. 

“Everything,” said Miss Wedderburn, triumphantly. 
“House, estate, fortune, everything left absolutely to Fran- 
ces. Mr. Cockburn says there is no reason at all to doubt 
the genuineness of the will.” 

“But of course we shall contest it,” said Mrs. Fleming. 
Then, moved by a sudden impulse, she went up to Frances 
and took her hand. “You must not be vexed by my saying 
so, my dear. Of course I know that this is in no way your 
fault. But you have no claim to Miss Kettlewell’s fortune, 
for you were in no way connected with her, and I am sure 
you are the very last person to uphold such an alteration of 
her will — ” 

“I never thought of it. I never guessed,” said Frances, 
shivering as if with sudden cold. “And I should never 
have imagined — ” turning to Miss Wedderburn with sud- 
den passion — “that anybody could be so wicked as to bring 
up this paper — now — ” 

“Where does the wickedness come in?” asked Miss Wed- 
derbum imperturbably. “You must remember that I am 
much more interested in you than in the Flemings, Fran- 
ces. You may be surprised,” she went on, addressing her- 


300 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


self to Mrs. Fleming, “by the familiarity of my speech. I 
must explain what ought to have been explained before, 
that this young lady is Frances Wedderburn, not Frances 
Corbet, and that she is the daughter of the Reverend Silas 
Wedderburn of Zion Lane. Therefore, my cousin, and 
very shortly, I trust, to be ray step-daughter.” 

“Oh, Frances, is this true?” said Chloe, in dismay. 

“It is a plot,” said ]\[rs. Fleming, with whitening lips. 
“Oh, I should never have thought it of you, Frances. That 
you could conspire with this woman to deceive us!” And 
she turned away, with her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“But I have not — I have not,” cried Frances, rising to 
her feet. “Indeed, I did not know of this will until this 
very moment. And as to my name — Mr. Corbet has known 
it all along, and I told Dr. Fleming myself only a few days 
ago. Oh, don’t accuse me of deceiving you, or I think it 
will break my heart.” 

“Darling, we do not accuse you,” said Chloe, taking the 
sobbing excited girl into her arras. “We know that you 
are loving and true, and will have nothing to do with this 
woman.” She drew herself up, and over Frances’s shoul- 
der, she darted a look of keen contempt at Miss Wedder- 
burn. “So that was the paper you stole from Miss Kettle- 
well’s box?” she said. 

“I stole no paper,” said Miss Wedderburn monotonously. 
“I tell you I found it in the lining of this bag, which Miss 
Kettlewell herself gave to me.” 

“I should like to see the paper. I think I should recog- 
nize it,” said Chloe quietly. 

“I have a copy with me,” answered Miss Wedderburn. 
“The original can be seen at Mr. Cockburn’s office. I 
scarcely thought it safe to bring it out of the lawyer’s 
hands.” 

“Did you think that we should destroy it?” said Chloe, 
with the faintest possible smile. 

“I think I should if I had it here!” cried Frances. 


THE THROWING OF A BOMB. 


301 


‘‘Hush, dear, hush! it will be all for the best. Show us 
your copy of the will, if you please. Miss Wedderburn.” 

Lavinia took from her pocket an envelope, which she laid 
on the table in front of Chloe. Inside it was the copy of 
the will. 

“Thank Chloe said, with a dignity which repressed 
even Miss Medderburn’s insolent familiarity. “We will 
read it and consider it — when we are alone.*’ 

“You will observe,” said Miss Wedderburn, “that I can- 
not be accused of any desire to keep the will back, seeing 
that by it, I lose my own small annuity. But as I am 
about to marry my cousin, this is a thing that I do not re- 
gret. And it would be pure hypocrisy if I pretended that 
•I was sorry to think of my future step-daughter as the mis- 
tress of King’s Leigli.” 

She rose in a leisurely manner and began to arrange her 
bag and her dress for walking. 

“I will say good morning now,” she remarked, “and I 
daresay I shall not see much more of you, Mrs. Fleming and 
Miss Fleming. But I shall hear of you. And I shall al- 
ways be pleased to see or hear from Frances.” 

Frances shrank back, looking as if she did not recipro- 
cate the sentiment; but nothing more was said until Miss 
Wedderburn had relieved them of her presence. Then 
Chloe said, with sudden pathos, 

“Oh, my poor Frances! Are you really related to her? 
But never mind; you belong to us; we will never give you 
up.” 

“You will hate me,” said Frances. 

“Ko, darling, no. As if it were your fault! Let us 
look at this paper and see what it is. Come, mother, look!” 

It was exactly as Miss Wedderburn had described it; a 
short business-like document; simply bequeathing all the 
writer possessed to Frances Corbet, in memory of her re- 
markable likeness to the writer’s friend. Lady Emmeline 
Hernesdale. The names of the witnesses were well known 
to Chloe and Mrs. Fleming; they were old servants who 


302 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


lived in Rushton and could easily be questioned on the 
subject. 

‘‘I am sure you won’t mind my saying, Frances,” said 
Mrs. Fleming, with her hand on the girl’s arm, “that I 
don’t believe for a moment that this will can possibly 
stand.” 

“It certainly will not stand if I have anything to do with 
it,” said Frances hotly. 

“But we shall not contest it, mother,” said Chloe, with a 
smiling face. She looked as if the change of fortune pleased 
her; they had not seen her so radiant for months. It was a 
curious way in which to receive the news of a great re- 
verse. 


THE TEST OF LOVE. 


303 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE TEST OP LOVE. 

‘^e must have Millicent home,” Dr. Fleming had said, 
when told of the disaster. 

“Poor Milly! I am afraid it will go hard with her,” his 
wife replied. 

The doctor reflected. “I am not so sure. I doubt, you 
know, whether Frances will accept anything. I am sure 
Laurence won’t take the change. Far be it from me to be- 
grudge Frances the money if old Keturah in her right mind 
willed it to her. But she was decidedly off the balance 
during those last few months. Think of the scene at the 
ball.” 

“Chloe declares that Frances must accept it. She seems 
almost glad to be relieved of the responsibility of Miss Ket- 
tlewell’s money.” 

“It may suit Chloe’s book very well to get rid of it,” said 
the doctor, bursting into a laugh, “but it won’t suit Milly’s. 
Lady Hernesdale will soon knock that engagement on the 
head, if Milly is no heiress.” 

It may be seen that the Flemings did not take their mis- 
fortunes so seriously as some families would have done. 
They had not launched out into extravagance; in fact, many 
persons said that they had not known how to live up to 
their present means and position; and they were healthy 
minded people, who did not consider money the chief item 
of their life. Dr. Fleming openly said that King’s Leigh 
was all very well in the summer, but that he was sighing 
for his old home in town; and Chloe looked so happy that 
one could scarcely believe the bad news true! Mrs. Flem- 
ing was more concerned than the others; but even she was 
more anxious about Milly than anything or anybody else. 


304 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Frances had gone back to Denstone. It was an intoler- 
able position for her, and she did not feel that she could 
possibly stay any longer at King’s Leigh. Not that the 
Flemings blamed her or were unkind to her. Indeed, as 
Chloe said, the best thing was for Frances to be seen in their 
company as much as possible, so that everyone might know 
that they were all on friendly terms. And Frances agreed 
that this would be best, and they must be seen together 
very often; nevertheless she felt that sKe must get away, 
either to Denstone or some other quiet place, and rest for a 
little while. Laurence was absent in London and else- 
where; he divined that she would rather be at Denstone 
without him, so she was left to her own devices and to Mrs. 
Lester, and after a time found it a little dull. 

Mrs. Fleming wrote to Millicent, and she also wrote to 
Lady Ilernesdale, informing her of the new will that had 
been found. The mother felt as if she were plunging a 
knife into her own child as she did so; for she was certain 
that Charlie Heron’s mother would not allow her son to 
marry a penniless girl; but she did not think that it would 
be right to keep back the information. And it had all the 
effect that she anticipated upon Lady Hernesdale’s mind. 

But upon the young people themselves, the effect was 
entirely different. 

Lord Heron and Milly were in some respects very modern 
young people; they prided themselves on being free from 
sentimentality of any kind and their discourse was of dogs 
and horses, bicycles and motor-cars, than of love and 
poetry. But they were rather unworldly young people too, 
without much appreciation of the advantages of great 
wealth, so that Milly’s first exclamation was — 

“How pleased Andrew will be!” 

“What, that Chloe’s fortune is gone?” 

“As pleased as Punch. He’ll propose now; you see.” 

“But suppose Miss Corbet — Wedderburn, whatever her 
name is — won’t accept the money?” 


THE TEST OF LOVE. 


305 


"Oh, but she’s sure to accept it,” said Milly hopefully; 
"people don’t like to refuse fortunes, as a rule, do they?” 

"W ell, no. But if she is related to that woman who used 
to be Miss Kettlewell’s companion — ” 

"She isn’t like her; not the least bit in the world,” Milly 
declared indignantly, "and I don’t believe she’ll take a 
penny of it away from us. I am sure I wouldn’t mind shar- 
ing with her. Why shouldn’t we be three co-heiresses, in- 
stead of two? There’s quite enough for three people?” 

"Quite,” said Heron, with a laugh. 

"But, Charlie, I’ve been thinking — ” 

"Yes, dear?” 

■ "Couldn’t we bring about Chloe’s happiness through 
this complication?” 

"I don’t see.” 

"Well — you know Andrew quite well, don’t you?” 

"Oh, yes, we were pals at Oxford. Only he’s an awful 
swell, and I’m not. I like Derrick awfully much.” 

"Then you had better write to him,” said Milly, with up- 
lifted finger, "and tell him of this sad misfortune that has 
befallen us.” — and her eyes sparkled and her cheeks dim- 
pled until Heron wanted to kiss her, but was a little afraid 
that she would, call him "silly,” — "and say to him how poor 
we shall be; and see whether that does not bring him home 
to Chloe like a shot.” 

"But would your father and mother like that?” said Lord 
Heron, whose own father and mother would not have liked 
it at all. 

"They would love it. They always really wanted Chloe 
to marry Andrew Derrick.” 

"And suppose it comes right after all, and Andrew has 
been lured home on false pretenses?” 

"All the better. He can’t wriggle out of it when once 
he has proposed and Chloe has accepted him.” 

Heron laughed, but was a little doubtful. As, however, 
Milly insisted upon his doing what she suggested, he wrote 
a short letter to Andrew, stating, without comment, what 
20 


306 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


had happened; and then posted it under cover to Mr. Der- 
rick, who probably knew his son’s address. 

Certainly the matter did not present itself in the same 
light to the Hernesdales as it did to the Flemings. Lady 
Hernesdale thought it quite right that Milly should go back 
at once, as Mrs. Fleming had “so sensibly” suggested; but 
her son did not see the matter in the same light, at all. He 
pleaded that the season was scarcely at its height, that 
there were several engagements which Milly was bound to 
fulfil, and that his mother must at least keep her until 
June. There was a rather sharp conflict, of which Milly 
was not told until long afterwards, between them on this 
point. The upshot of it was that Lady Hernesdale yielded 
to Charlie’s determination, and wrote a very gracious letter 
to Mrs. Fleming, asking her to let Milly stay with them a 
little longer; and, although Mrs. Fleming did not think it 
very wise, she finally consented. 

But Lady Hernesdale began to say very bitter things in 
private, both to her husband and her son; and before long, 
she said bitter things to Milly too. Milly did not under- 
stand them at first. 

“I don’t quite know what your mother means,” she said 
to Heron one day, more gravely than usual; “she has been 
talking a long time to me about the evils of poverty and of 
long engagements, and the fickleness of young men. Is it 
possible Charlie, that she means to insinuate that you are 
fickle, and that I shall be poor, and that our engagement is 
one that ought to be broken off?” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if she did,” said the young man, 
sitting down on the arm of the easy chair in which Milly 
was sitting and getting hold of her hand. 

“Do you think so?” said Milly, in the smallest possible 
voice. 

“Of course I don’t, you blessed little darling, but I think 
we are going to have hard times before us, if we don’t look 
out.” 

‘^i^at do you mean, Charlie?” 


THE TEST OF LOVE. 


307 


'‘Her ladyship’s got it into her head that the suit will go 
against you, and that Frances will take the property.” 

“We know Frances better than that!” said Milly. 

‘And she has an heiress in her eye for me; someone 
with even more money than you were supposed to have, 
little one!” 

“And — do you mean to do what your mother wishes?” 

“Suppose you beg my pardon for asking such an atro- 
ciously silly question. A kiss will do it; it’s better than an 
apology — from you.” 

“But Charlie — ^if anything were to go wrong, should you 
mind very much?” 

“Not a bit, my darling, so long as I had you,” 

“But your mother — ” 

“Well, she might kick up a dust about it; but so long as 
we two stick to each other, I think we might get along,” 

Milly sighed deeply, and the tears came into her eyes. 

“But suppose you regret it — afterwards?” 

“I’m not a cad, Milly.” 

“No, dear, but I have heard of men growing tired of 
their wives, and they were not all cads, either — at least as 
far as one could judge. If I were poor and had lost what 
they call my prettiness, and everyone said to you that I had 
ruined 3^our life and that I was a poor thing to have sac- 
rificed everything for — how would you feel, Charlie?” 

“I should tell them that they told a pack of beastly lies,” 
said Charlie. Then, in a deeper tone, “No, my dearest, 
what they said wouldn’t affect me in the least. It is you 
I love, not your money, nor your face, but you; and as long 
as you don’t change, I can swear that I shan’t.” 

The vow of constancy has often been lightly made and 
lightly broken; but Charles Heron was a brave, honest 
young fellow, who would have thought it dishonor not to 
keep his word. He looked into her eyes, and she believed 
him; and in after years she found him worthy of her trust. 

But when the moment of serious thought was over, they 
became like two children again, laughing over Lady 


308 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


Hernesdale’s plans, and mocking the very thought of wealth 
and grandeur. Lady Hernesdale’s blood would have run cold 
if she had heard them talk. She scoffed finely at great houses 
and great entertainments, and they decided to live in a 
little house near Eushton, where they could see a great deal 
of their relations, yet not be bound by the ties of the great 
world. 

It was perhaps his blood being fired by this prospect, 
that Charlie at last added in almost a whisper — 

“Dear little woman, don’t you think we had better make 
sure?” 

Milly looked half frightened, half amused. “How can 
we make sure?” she said. 

“By marrying each other straight off,” said the tempter. 
“Then nobody could protest or be disagreeable or anything. 
Let’s walk into a church and get married, Milly. Oh, I 
know there’s a lot of bother before that; we should have to 
get a license, so as to avoid putting up banns, and all that 
sort of thing. But I could manage it quite easily, if you 
would say yes.” 

Milly was quite shocked. She had never thought of such 
a thing as marrying without her parents’ consent, and she 
said so, very gravely and reprovingly. 

“But, darling, you have their consent,” said the casuist. 
“When fathers and mothers allow their daughters to be- 
come engaged to men, they generally expect marriage to 
follow, some time or other. Generally, I say. I shouldn’t 
like to make a rule of it; but as a general thing. I think 
you may safely say that engaged people do marry.” 

“Oh, Charlie, how silly you are! But I couldn’t be mar- 
ried without mother and Chloe, and the people that I know 
— I shouldn’t feel as if I married at all.” 

“And the white satin gown and the bridesmaids, and the 
wedding-cake, and Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, I sup- 
pose,” said Lord Heron, rather wrathfully. “I thought 
these were the conventionalities of fashion that you had de- 
termined to give up!” 


THE TEST OF LOVE. 


309 


They had a pretty little quarrel after that. Milly pro- 
tested that she did not care one iota for wedding-gowns 
and cakes, but that she wanted her own people to be pres- 
ent at her marriage. Charlie declared that she did not love 
him if she could talk of her own people as if they were a 
protection to her, against him. Then Milly sulked and 
would not speak to him. And Lady Hemesdale was 
charmed to observe that there seemed to be a coolness be- 
tween the pair, that Milly’s eyes were red, and that Charlie 
was in a furiously bad temper. 

‘‘You are going to the Ormes to-night, I suppose,” she 
said to him at dinner. 

“Certainly not, I am going with you and Milly to the 
opera.” 

“There will be plenty of time afterwards. We shall 
meet there, I dare say. I am quite longing to^ see Isabel 
Orme with all her diamonds on.” 

Charlie made no response, and Milly did not raise her 

eyes. 

They found no opportunity of speaking to each other 
until later in the evening, when Charlie leaned over his 
chair in the opera-box, and whispered contritely. 

“Have you forgiven me?” 

“I don’t know,” said Milly very curtly. Then after a 
moment’s silence : “Who is Isabel Orme ?” 

“Oh, don’t you know? The heiress my mother wants 
me to marry instead of you.” 

“You are very unkind.” 

“I am not unkind at all.” ■, t a 

Here the interview was interrupted; but when Lord 
Heron was taking his fiancee to the carriage, they resumed 
the interesting subject. 

“I am sure your mother is not so worldly as you make her 

°^“Very well,” said Charlie, resignedly. “We’ll play that 
she isn’t.” 


310 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


^TTou won’t like the girl with the diamonds better than 
me, will you?” 

“Oh, Milly, you little witch, don’t you know how I love 
you? And you don’t care for me one bit.” 

“Yes — yes; a little bit.” 

“Not nearly as much as I care for you.” 

“Yes I do, Charlie — ^really.” 

“But you won’t do what I ask you.” 

“I don’t think that I dare,” said the girl, flushing and 
quivering with some emotion that was half pleasure and 
half pain. 

“Darling, won’t you trust me?” 

This time the answer was ready. “Oh yes, Charlie, with 
all my heart and soul.” 

And Lord Heron’s cause was won. 


THE IMMEDIATE EFFECTS. 


311 


CHAPTER XXXVn. 

THE IMMEDIATE EFFECTS. 

Andrew Derrick was not very far away. He was in Paris 
when Lord Heron’s letter reached him, enclosed in one 
from his father. His first plan had been to go further 
a-field, but he had been the victim of an incurable languor 
and melancholy, which had caused him to linger in Paris 
and lounge away his time as best he could in churches and 
galleries, in the Bois de Boulogne and on the Boulevards. 
It was not usual with him to like this sauntering life, but 
he was terribly depressed at this time; and also, he had a 
strange fear of going too far away, of being out of reach 
supposing that Chloe wanted him. He was in this mood 
when his father’s letter was put into his hand; and he open- 
ed it carelessly, not expecting anything of interest. His 
father’s letter was not interesting, certainly, but Andrew 
opened the note from Heron with some curiosity. He and 
Lord Heron had always been good friends, but not intimate 
with each other, and he was therefore somewhat surprised 
to see his crest upon the envelope. 

The letter which Charlie Heron, under Milly’s tutelage, 
had concocted, ran as follows: — 

“Dear Old Chap, 

“I wonder where you are just now and what you are 
doing. You might drop me a line and let me know. 
I am not sure whether I shall not feel inclined some 
day to come out and join you. Affairs are not going very 
straight with us here. My mother is keen on my marrying 
an heiress, and of course Miss Fleming won’t do for me (in 
my lady’s opinion) since the new will was found, leaving all 
Miss Kettle well’s money to Miss Wedderburn. Perhaps 


312 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


you haven’t heard of this change of fortune? The Flem- 
ings are the pluckiest people I know; they take it all as if 
it were a joke. But I must say that my mother doesn’t like 
it much; and I’m afraid there’s trouble in store for some 
of us. Yours always, 

“Heron.” 

Charlie had not done his commission badly. He certainly 
showed in this letter some qualities which afterwards stood 
him in good stead in the diplomatic service. 

The effect upon Andrew was instantaneous. He threw 
down the letter and sprang to his feet, his face glowing, his 
eyes alight with happiness. “AVhat a blessing that I hadn’t 
left Paris!” he exclaimed. And then he fell to work upon his 
portmanteau. 

There was not a word of untruth in Charlie’s letter, and 
yet it conveyed an impression which was very far from the 
facts. Andrew naturally leaped to the conclusion that the 
matter of the will was settled; that the Flemings had 
actually lost their money and were back again at Eushton — 
far from the hateful splendors of King’s Leigh. This be- 
lief exhilarated him hugely. He made haste to get to the 
railway station and take the first train for Calais. Then on 
board the boat, and the train from Dover to London, and 
again from London to Eushton! The weather was warm, 
for summer had begun early that )'^ear, and he was tired 
with that rapid journey; but for all that, he was too restless 
to drive from the station to his father’s house. He felt 
that a good walk of two or three miles, taking Eushton 
town on the way by a little detour, would refresh him ex- 
ceedingly; and he therefore sent his baggage by an omnibus 
to his father’s house, and started on his walk. 

The day was just closing; a soft, subdued light filled the 
sky, and the west was red and golden still, as he stopped in 
front of Dr. Fleming’s old red house in the town. It 
seemed to him to have recovered its home-like look; there 
were white curtains at the windows, and the door was half- 


THE IMMEDIATE EFFECTS. 


313 


open as it had been in the days when he was always welcome 
there. As he stood at the gate, a rough-looking man passed 
by and eyed him curiously. Andrew felt as if his presence 
required an explanation. “I am wondering whether the 
doctor is at home,” he said almost apologetically. 

Oh, ay, they’re at home now,” said the man. Except 
Miss Milly, as is oop i’ London still.” 

“They have left King’s Leigh?” 

“I s’pose so. Munney’s gone to somebody else, I heerd 
foalk say. Loan’t knoaw mooch aboot it, myself.” 

He moved away, but Andrew, in his new-born delight, 
Offered him a shilling. 

“Eh? what’s this?” said the man, looking at the coin 
doubtfully. “I hevn’t yearned it, as I’m aweer on.” 

“Oh yes, you have; you’ve given me some good news,” 
said Andrew. 

“I’ve heerd tell that a fule an’ his munney was soon 
parted; but I’d ne’er be the one to say the fule nay,” said 
the man, as he pocketed the coin and strode away. Andrew 
laughed for pure lightness of heart. He opened the gate, 
walked straight up the flagged path, and in at the half- 
opened door. 

Then he paused. Where should he go? What should 
he do next? The house seemed very silent and deserted. 
He stood in the hall, looking doubtfully to left and right. 
On his left hand was the doctor’s consulting room; beyond it 
the surgery. The doors seemed to be open, and he heard 
the sound of someone moving in the surgery — making up a 
prescription, doubtless, for the doctor. It might be the as- 
sistant, or it might be the doctor; it might even — possibly 
— be Chloe herself. Andrew felt that he loved her better 
as a trained dispenser than as the mistress of King’s Leigh. 

He walked straight into the consulting-room, with a good 
deal of unnecessary noise. Then he heard the sounds in 
the surgery cease. And then — somebody in a white gown 
came into the consulting-room, and stood still. 

‘T^y father is not at home at present,” said a sweet voice 


314 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


out of the dimness, "‘but he will be back soon, and then you 
can — Andrew!” 

She had not known him for a moment as he stood with 
his back to the window; but when he came a little nearer 
she recognized him even before she saw his face. Then he 
sprang forward, and took her by the hand. 

“I have not come to see your father,” he said, “I have 
Kjome to see you.” 

“Me?” she said, in a strangely subdued tone. She was 
thinner and paler than she used to be, and she wore a gray 
dress and a white apron, which made her look like a hos- 
pital-nurse. 

“You, Chloe, you! Oh, my darling, do you think that I 
could stay away?” 

And before she could protest — if she had wanted to pro- 
test — his arms were round her, and her head was on his 
shoulder, where her dignity failed her in a burst of sudden 
tears. They startled Andrew inexpressibly; he had never 
seen her weep before. 

“My darling! my dearest! Have I frightened you? 
Sweet, you love me, do you not? My own darling, why do 
you cry?” 

“It is nothing — nothing,” she said, “Only my own fool- 
ishness. Only that I have been so tired — so tired of it all.” 

“And you have wanted me?” 

“Oh, so much — so much!” 

“Forgive me, Chloe. It was my pride that stood in the 
way. Your riches would not let me speak. I felt as if it 
would be an unmanly thing for me to ask you to become my 
wife.” 

“And you are wiser,” she said, quickly, as though she did 
not want him to go on. 

“If I am not wiser, darling, I think Providence has been 
wise for us. I had a letter from Charlie Heron which 
brought me to your side.” 

“Charlie Heron? But why did he write to you about 
me?” 


THE IMMEDIATE EFFECTS. 


315 


“It was not about you in particular, dearest, it was chiefly 
about Milly. But I could not stay away; I could not leave 
you to bear your troubles all alone— and when I heard the 
news that made me free to ask you to be my wife, why, 
then I came at once.” 

“But — I do not altogether understand,” began Chloe. 
Then she started back, coloring deeply, and turning her 
face towards the door. But Andrew would not relinquish 
his hold upon her hand. 

It was Dr. Fleming who entered, just returned from a 
round of visits; and at first, even his keen eyes failed to 
distinguish the figures before him. “Hello; who have we 
here?” he said, ‘^hy, God bless my soul! is it you Andrew? 
Eh? — and what the deuce are you doing with Chloe’s 
hand?” 

“I have been asking her to be my wife, sir,” said Andrew, 
drawing her forward. 

The doctor sat down in his study chair, and looked at 
them. 

“Well,” he said, “you seem to have lost no time. When 
did you come back?” 

“This evening,” said Andrew, smiling. 

“I thought so. I met your father just now and he told 
me you were in Paris and likely to remain there.” 

“He will have found out his mistake by this time,” 
said Andrew. “I have sent on my things. May I have 
Chloe, doctor?” 

“With all my heart, as far as I am concerned. But 
Chloe is independent. She will have to give you her an- 
swer herself. I don’t pretend to dictate to Chloe now- 
a-days.” 

“Are you still so willful?” Andrew asked her, with a 
smile. “Chloe, I need have no doubt, need I? You will 
have me, will 3'ou not?” 

“If you want me, Andrew.” And she stretched out one 
hand to him and one to her father, who rose and kissed 
her, and then shook hands gravely with his future son-in- 


316 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


law. “You must take care of Her,” he said. “She will 
want much help, much love, much guidance, in the life that 
lies before her; and I would sooner give her into your 
charge, Andrew, than into that of anyone I know.” 

There was a touch of solemnity in his words and look 
which touched yet rather astounded Andrew Derrick. But 
he responded heartily to the father’s appeal. 

“I will always do my very best to make her happy, sir. 
No need to say 1 will always love her — it would be impos- 
sible to do otherwise — but I can promise also to work for 
her, to serve her, to give her a happy home — ” 

Whereat Dr. Fleming suddenly chuckled. “It’s scarcely 
in your power to do that, my man. She has a home al- 
ready.” 

The first thrill of doubt and fear shot through Andrew’s 
heart. He looked round at Chloe, whose eyes were fixed 
half fearfully upon his face. “But — you have lost King’s 
Leigh!” he said. 

“Lost King’s Leigh?” said Dr. Fleming, with a laugh, 
‘^ot a bit of it, Andrew. Oh, you have heard of that new 
will, I suppose? But you see — who’s that?” 

Again the door had opened — gently this time, and some- 
body looked in. It was an evening of surprises. Dr. Flem- 
ing strode to the door and grasped Lord Heron by the hand. 

“Heron, my dear boy! what is it? Nothing wrong? Milly 
— is she ill?” 

“Not at all,” said Heron, with a pleasant but rather ner- 
vous laugh. “She’s as fit as a fiddle, and so am I. She’s 
lurking in the hall — afraid to come in.” 

“Afraid?” said the doctor, while Chloe sprang to the 
door, on which, however. Heron still held his hand. 

“Don’t be in a hurry,” he said. “We’ve sent up-stairs 
for Mrs. Fleming, too; we want to have the thing in style, 
don’t you know. Now then!” 

He opened the door, while the spectators stared at him 
as though he had gone mad. He did not look very mad, 
but he was flushed with something like suspense and ex- 


THE IMMEDIATE EFFECTS. 


317 


citement. He put out his hand and drew Milly, also flushed 
and excited and rather frightened, into the room. 

Allow me to present Lady Heron to the assembled com- 
pany,^’ said Charlie. And Milly flung herself straight into 
her father’s arms. 

“What does the fellow mean? Why, Milly, my little 
Milly, how well you are looldng, child! Crying and laugh- 
ing too? Here’s your mother; I must hand you over to 
her.” 

But Milly, still clinging to him, sobbed out something 
like — “Don’t be angry with us, daddy; we are very sorry — ” 

“We’ll never do it again,” said Charlie, beaming mth 
pride and conscious shamefacedness; as he stood at the doc- 
tor’s elbow. 

The doctor looked from one to the other. “You don’t 
mean — ” 

“We’re married,” said Charlie stoutly. “By special li- 
cense. I was over age, and you know we had your consent, 
sir, for consent to an engagement means consent to a mar- 
riage, so we had no trouble over that; and we thought we 
had better come away at once and tell you about it.” 

“We’ve left a letter for Lady Hernesdale,” — said Milly 
anxiously. “She will be very angry. You won’t be angry 
too, will you, dad?” 

“I don’t know,” said the doctor. “What made you act in 
this way. Heron? It was hardly fair to my daughter, I 
think. You had no reason for a clandestine marriage, 
when everything was arranged — ” 

“Fact is, I thought things were getting disarranged, sir,” 
said Charlie. “When we heard about the King’s Leigh 
business and the will, my mother was — well, somewhat an- 
noyed; and rather than that anything should come between 
my darling and myself, I persuaded her to marry me at 
once, so that we might not be divided under any circum- 
stances. I hope you will excuse my precipitation; but even 
if you don’t, why, Milly’s my wife and she loves me — and 
I’m content.” 


318 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“Milly married! Oh, Milly, darling and without me!” 
Mrs. Fleming said. 

“That was the greatest difficulty of all that I had to 
contend with,” Lord Heron said. “She could not bear to 
think that you were not with her; but I told her we would 
both come here immediately afterwards, and that I was sure 
you would forgive us.” 

“I suppose there is nothing else for us to do,” said Dr. 
Fleming ruefully; “but I must say there was no need to be 
in such a hurry. What your parents will say. Lord Heron, 
I really cannot tell.” 

“I don’t think it matters much, do you father?” said 
Milly, whose look of fright and guilt had given way to a 
sort of contrite twinkle. “As long as we have Cousin 
Keturah’s money, as mother tells me we probably shall, in 
spite of the scare about the will. Lady Hernesdale will be 
perfectly happy. And in any case, so shall we.” 

“But what does it mean?” whispered Andrew to- his lady- 
love, detaining her for a moment in the hall, as the others 
dispersed to various rooms; “have you not lost that money? 
was I the victim of a hoax?” 

His tone was so stern, that Chloe hastened to reply with 
double gentleness. 

“I am sure you were not. But the will left everything to 
our friend Frances, and she maintains that she will not ac- 
cept the money. Besides, the authorities do not think that 
the will would hold. Andrew dear, now that you have 
come back to me you will not let that wretched money be 
any barrier between us?” 

He hesitated a moment; then lightened his hold upon 
her, and kissed her on the lips. 

“Whatever happens,” he said deliberately, “I cannot let 
you go.” 

“But Chloe,” he added, after a pause of perfect happi- 
ness, “tell me one thing. Someone told me you had all 
left King’s Leigh. That was why I walked straight into 


THE IMMEDIATE EFFECTS. 


319 


this house. Of course I thought that you had all been 
turned out, and lost the money and everything.” 

“Dear boy! I am so glad you thought so,” Chloe answer- 
ed. “But we only came here for a week, because Mrs. 
Green said that King’s Leigh wanted ‘a regular, right- 
down, good spring clean.’ ” 

Andrew was vanouished and confessed as much. 


sso 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 

THE PERPLEXITY OF LAVINIA WEDDERBURN. 

As Mr. Wedderburn had told Laurence Corbet, he had 
written his resignation of the post he filled at Zion Lane. 
He had put it on the score of failing health, and it over- 
whelmed the congregation with dismay. The Rushton 
Dissenters were very enthusiastic about Mr. Wedderburn. 
They maintained that ‘The Church” had not a preacher to 
compare with him; and they flocked in crowds on Sunday 
evenings to the bare little chapel, and filled it to suffoca- 
tion. It was for this reason that they had so ambitiously 
determined upon building a new chapel, and that the sub- 
scriptions had fallen in so fast. But all would be altered 
if Mr. Wedderburn went away. 

Two deputations were sent to interview Mr. Wedderburn 
on the subject. It was unfortunate the members said, that 
Mr. Derrick, who was so influential a man at Zion Lane 
Chapel, was on each occasion unable to attend. He sent 
very polite excuses, and expressed a hope that Mr. Wedder- 
burn would yield, if possible, to the desire of the committee; 
but Mr. Wedderburn remained unmoved. 

He knew well enough why Matthew Derrick would not 
come. The sturdy old miller, with his strict notions of 
honor and honesty, would keep silence; but he would not 
join other people in begging Silas Wedderburn to stay. His 
head dropped when the deacons talked of the loss to their 
“Cause,” if Mr. Wedderburn went. And once he said 
rather abruptly, “If Mr. Wedderburn does what he thinks 
right, I don’t suppose that the Lord will let either him or 
us be the losers.” 

And the deacons, who did not quite understand him, said 
afterwards that Mr. Derrick must have a very high opinion 


THE PERPLEXITY OF LAVINIA WEDDERBURN. 321 


of Mr. Wedderburn, because he spoke as if the minister had 
great power in prayer. Which was not in the least what 
Mr. Derrick had meant at all. 

But he did not tell to anyone the few words he ex- 
changed one day with Mr. Wedderburn when they met in 
a solitary place — a lane not far from Derrick’s mill, where 
the minister had been visiting a sick child. Silas would 
have passed him without a word, only lifting his hat with a 
certain humility of manner as he went by; but Mr. Derrick 
stopped and held out his big red hand. 

‘Tve a word to say to you, Mr. Wedderburn. You and 
me — we may have had a brush, and for the time, as you 
know, I was ready to come down on you if everything was 
not square; but you acted quite fairly in the long run, 
though late; and I do not see that a thing like that need 
hinder you from going on with your work here. If that’s 
the reason you’re resigning, think better of it, sir. You 11 
do good work yet.” 

He was looking down as he spoke, and stumping the 
ground with his stick; he did not see that his appeal 
brought tears into Silas Wedderburn’s eyes. The minister 
answered, after a moment’s thought, in a careful and de- 


liberate way. * , .r , 4 “ 

"You are very kind, sir, very kind. I have reasons of 
my own for resigning as well as the one you mention, which 
certainly was also present in my mind. If I could stay, 1 
would. But I must go.” 

"I am sorry for it; sorry if anything Ive said or done 
should have induced you to leave, Mr. Wedderburn. How- 
ever, if you must go, you must. You’ll preach agam- 
farewell sermon, I suppose — ^before you leave. 

Mr. Wedderburn shook his head. «My strength would 
not be equal to such an exertion,” he replied. „ 

"But the people! the congregation, you must think ot 
them!” said Mr. Derrick in remonstrance. You must say 
good-bye to them some time or other. And you can t speak 
to ’em il separately. What do you think of a tea? A fare- 


323 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


well tea? You could say something, long or short, at a 
farewell tea.^’ 

The minister drew a long breath. ^‘Yes,” he said rather 
dreamily. “I could say something, certainly, at a farewell 
tea.” 

‘T’ll arrange for it then,” said Mr. Derrick with alacrity. 
‘T will consult with others and let you know the day. I 
am glad to have met you, Mr. Wedderburn. Good-day, 
sir, good-day.” 

He shook hands cordially with the minister, whom he 
liked much better after this little explanation, and walked 
away. Silas Wedderburn remained standing for a little 
while, and then moved on, slowly and rather dizzily; some- 
body who met him live minutes afterwards declared that 
he looked as if he had got his death-blow. It was plainly to 
be seen that “poor Mr. Wedderburn” was very ill. 

Lavinia, in the meantime, was furious. She was ex- 
tremely angry with Silas, with Frances, with the Flemings; 
but chiefly angry with Fate (or Providence) which seemed 
likely to wrest her prey from her hands, and baulk her 
schemes of revenge on other people. It was really small 
use to badger Silas about the wedding-day. After all, she 
would now gain very little by marrying him; he would have 
nothing to leave, and the congregation did not know her 
sufficiently well to offer her a pension. Then the better 
side of her leaped up — the side that was not absorbed in 
money-grabbing — the side of her queer but undying per- 
sonal attachment to Silas. She was attached to him; there 
was no doubt of that; and she wanted to feel that he be- 
longed to her for a little while, even if he died so soon; she 
wanted to nurse him, to go in and out of his room without 
question, to have the nearness, if not the dearness, of a 
wife. She believed too, that she could cure his disease if 
she had him to herself. She had great faith in her own 
astuteness and specifics, and did not believe a word the 
doctors said. Heart-disease, indeed? it was nothing but in- 
digestion. Good food and good exercise, and plenty of 


THE PERPLEXITY OF LAVINIA WEDDERBURN. 323 


open air; these were what Silas wanted, and if he had her 
for a wife, she would see that he soon got well. But she 
was wise enough to see that she had better keep a good 
many of these sentiments to herself. Silas was bent upon 
leaving Eushton; well and good. She would get him away 
to a quiet little seaside place and there he would marry her. 
She had more money ‘‘pi^t away” than anybody knew. It 
would maintain them for a time. How they should live 
when that was spent she did not know; but she thought it 
possible that Silas would be able to take an occasional ser- 
vice, or speak at a missionary meeting; where he would be 
paid for his assistance. If not, she would have to find 
something that she could do and surely, Frances Wedder- 
burn would not be so hard-hearted as to refuse to assist 


them? 

Her annuity would, of course, be sacrificed, if Miss Ket- 
tlewell’s last-found will were accepted. In that ease, Fran- 
ces would probably make the loss good to her, “She could 
not do less,” Miss Wedderburn said, with conviction. And 
if the other will stood its ground, Lavinia’s income was 
still secure. So she did not consider that she need feel 
much anxiety on that score. 

But she had failed a little where she had most emphati- 
cally wished to succeed. She had not retained Silas’s affec- 
tion; he seemed to regard her with positive loathing. And 
she had not carried out her scheme of revenge very satis- 
factorily on the Flemings. She had carried off the paper 
from Miss Kettlewell’s box on the night of the old ladys 
death, as Chloe had believed and suggested; “'J.™ 
what it was, she had carefully held it back until the two 
virls had grown accustomed to their wealth, and Milly was 
actually engaged to a lord, “who would be sure to to™ ^ 
over,” Miss Wedderburn said, “if he found that she had no 


money after all.” 

Well, she had thrown her bomb, 
have fizzed and gone out. The lawyer 
ces and on the Flemings— to no effect. 


And it seemed to 
had waited on Fran- 
Frances refused to 


3S4 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


have anything to do with the matter; the Flemings had 
been more discomposed by the discovery that Frances was 
Miss Wedderburn’s cousin than by the fear that they 
would lose their wealth; and Dr. Fleming had laughed the 
whole thing to scorn. ‘‘Everyone knew that poor old 
Keturah was off her head more or less for those last few 
weeks,” he said. “Her conduct at the ball showed it; her 
delirium about Frances herself emphasized it. The will 
was worth the paper it was written on and nothing more. 
But he begged that Miss Wedderburn should bring her con- 
tention to the courts, for his daughters would not for one 
moment remain at King’s Leigh if any other person had a 
better claim to it.” 

Miss AVedderburn considered that all this was mere bra- 
vado. Frances was the heiress to King’s Leigh; and if she 
had been told earlier that Frances was Silas’s daughter, she 
would have acted more quickly (though she did not say so 
in public; she would not have allowed the Flemings to enter 
the house at all. What Frances said or thought did not 
matter; she was a minor, and her nearest relations must act 
for her; Miss Wedderburn was almost her nearest relation 
and had the right to act. She hoped in time to be the 
recipient of Frances’s gratitude. But the thing that was 
bitter to her was the small effect produced upon the Flem- 
ings’ health and spirits. They did not seem less cheerful 
than before. Everyone was as friendly to them as everyone 
had been before. And when after a few days, it leaked out 
that Lord Heron had married Milly “on the spot,” as soon 
as ever he heard of the possible loss of fortune; and that An- 
drew Derrick had come home at the first word of it, in order 
to engage himself to Chloe, then indeed Miss AVedderburn 
felt that her cup was full. She was inclined to exclude her- 
self in her room and to say — “What good does my life do 
me?” But she refrained — for the sake of others, as she 
placidly told herself. 

The only crumb of comfort that remained to her was this 
proposal of a farewell tea. Miss AA^edderburn’s experience 


THE PERPLEXITY OF LAVINIA WEDDERBURN. 325 

of farewell teas was that they generally ended in substantial 
benefits to the person on whose behalf they were given. 
Visions of silver teapots, of gold watches, of purses full of 
sovereigns, loomed before her eyes. Surely the congrega- 
tion of Zion Lane would not be so remiss as to let their es- 
teemed pastor depart without a donation in precious metal 
and coin of the realm! 

She soon found that she had conjectured right. The 
congregation was going wild over a subscription list. It 
was carefully kept from the minister’s knowledge, but Miss 
Wedderburn was consulted respecting the nature of the 
gifts. After great deliberation with herself, she replied 
that a gold watch would be an admirable gift; and that if 
there was any money left, it might be handed to Mr. Wed- 
derburn in a purse. And report said that there would be a 
good deal to go into the purse, for Mr. Derrick, amongst 
others, had made a very large contribution to the fund. 

Lavinia showed her discretion in not mentioning these 
details to Mr. Wedderburn; she saved them up, so to speak, 
and meant to pour them into his ears afterwards. She for- 
got herself a little on one occasion. Two or three days be- 
fore the meeting, Silas asked her abruptly whether Frances 
was at King’s Leigh or at Denstone. “I should like her 
to come to this meeting,” he said. 

"It would be very nice,” Miss Wedderburn agreed. She 
was quite surprised indeed by the good sense of the sugges- 
tion. 

"So good for Frances to see how the people appreciate 
you,” she said. "I don’t think she understands how great 
your powers are, and how much you are beloved. It would 
be very nice if she could hear all the good things they are 
sure to say about you, and — supposing even they were to 
give you some little present, some testimonial — 

"Don’t let them mention such a thing,” said Silas, almost 
fiercely. 

"But suppose they have mentioned it! Suppose they 
intend to give you — oh, I must not tell you what!” 


326 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘‘I shall take nothing from them, so they will only waste 
their money/’ Mr. Wedderburn declared; and walked out 
of the drawing-room with a gray, stricken look upon his 
face, which almost perpexed Lavinia, although she was not 
easily frightened. 

^‘Dces he mean to refuse it all at the meeting?” she asked 
herself. “Oh, he would never be such a fool! Surely, 
surely, he would not do such a thing! How terrible for 
me!”" 

But she was reassured when she saw that he had been 
writing letters to the very people to whom she had never 
dared to write to be present. Had he asked them? She 
could not tell; but she saw that the notes were addressed 
to Frances, to Laurence Corbet, to Dr. Fleming; and she 
wished that she could get them into her own hands for a 
few moments and discover their contents! But Silas was 
too careful of his letters. He posted them with his own 
hands, and Miss Wedderburn was only able to make vague 
guesses at their contents. 

The tea-meeting was to be held in the Zion Lane school- 
room. There was to be a tea first, and speaking afterwards. 
The chief ladies of the congregation presided at trays, in 
the old-fashioned style; and the plates were loaded with 
buns, bread and butter, and buttered seed-cake and curd 
cheese-cakes, and other delicacies of Lincolnshire fare, in 
the most lavish and superior manner. Miss Wedderburn 
presided at one tray; but she disappointed her neighbors a 
good deal when she remarked that Mr. Wedderburn was 
not well enough to join in the tea, but would come to the 
meeting afterwards. It was felt that the hilarity of the 
occasion was a little dampened by the absence of the min- 
ister. 

But when the tea-trays were cleared away, and the 
benches turned and filled by an eager and perspiring crowd, 
nothing could have been greater than the enthusiasm creat- 
ed by the first appearance of Mr. Wedderburn, in company 
with his deacons, on the platform at one end of the room — 


THE PERPLEXITY OF LAVINIA WEDDERBURN. 327 

a platform covered with red cloth and decorated largely 
with palms from Mr. Derrick’s greenhouse and a huge bou- 
quet of roses on the table. Mr. Wedderburn, who looked 
very white about the lips, was obliged to rise and bow; and 
then a deacon of the church, whose name was Byles, was 
asked to take the chair. 


328 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

THE PRESENTATION. 

It was almost at the same moment that a little party, con- 
ducted by Mr. Derrick, entered the class-room which form- 
ed a sort of ante-chamber to the scliool-room proper. The 
class-room was at one end of the platform and always ap- 
propriated to the use of speakers or performers. Mr. Der- 
rick, who knew this, had brought his private party round 
that way, and now seated three of his companions on the 
front seat, though well to the side, while the remaining one 
remained out of sight of the audience, just inside the door. 

There was a slight buzz of astonishment amongst the 
people on the benches in the school-room. For Mr. Der- 
rick had brought distinguished visitors. There was Mr. 
Corbet of Denstone, for instance; who would have expected 
to see him there? That Mr. Corbet’s ward was Mr. Wed- 
derburn’s daughter had scarcely penetrated the mind of the 
Zion Lane congregation; they would not have attached 
much importance to the fact! But Mr. Corbet’s appearance 
at one of the Zion Lane festivities was a most exciting inci- 
dent, which would probably be done full justice to by the 
local reporter. It was also considered very extraordinary 
that Dr. Fleming should be present. The feud between La- 
vinia Wedderburn and the Flemings was well known; and 
as Andrew Derrick, also known to be engaged to Chloe, 
followed with his father, the excitement became intense. 
There was great anxiety to see who it was who had accom- 
panied them and stood inside the class-room door — much 
craning of heads and much conjecture among the younger 
part of the audience. For it was rumored that the gentle- 
men had brought with them a female of some kind or an- 
other; and while one person guessed that it might be Miss 


THE PRESENTATION. 


329 


Fleming and another that it was Lady Heron, very few re- 
flected that it was more likely to be the minister’s daughter, 
Frances Wedderburn. 

Silas had written three short letters, begging his daugh- 
ter, Mr. Corbet and Dr. Fleming to be present at the meet- 
ing. Each had consented to come, and each from different 
reasons; Frances came, because her heart yearned over the 
father whom she longed to help and could not save; Lau- 
rence, because he was ashamed of his own bitterness and 
violence in his conversation with Mr. Wedderburn; Dr. 
Fleming, chiefly from curiosity, and a professional interest 
in the minister’s physical condition. FTot that Mr. Wedder- 
burn had of late been attended to by him; he had called in 
Dr. Spencer instead of Dr. Fleming; but Dr. Fleming knew 
enough of his condition and temperament to be a little anx- 
ious about the effect of this exciting occasion upon him. 
AndreAv came because his father wished it, and also be- 
cause he could not help seeing that Mr. Derrick was pur- 
sued by a kind of haunting nervousness, which he could 


neither suppress nor explain. 

Mr. Byles, the red-faced chairman — a butcher in private 
life — made the opening speech. He dilated strongly on the 
sorrow they all felt at the resignation of Mr. Wedderburn, 
especially as it was on account of his health; he enlarged or 
some time on his many merits and virtues, and he hoped 
that this great and unexpected blow would not affect the 
subscription-list for the new building. Then he sat down 
rather helplessly, and was applauded a great deal 
up again to request Mr. Derrick to speak. Meanwhile Silas 
Wedderburn sat in a prominent position on the right of the 
chairman, and with one hand shading his eyes, preserved 
an inscrutable passivity. Miss Wedderburn sat opposite 
him, in the middle of the front bench; she was smiling per- 
sistently, but the smile was somewhat forced. 

Mr Derrick ascended the platform steps, with a marked 
slowness, which looked almost like reluctance. He had 
been forced into a position which he did not care to fill. 


330 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


As senior deacon, it was his place to make the presentation 
of the gold watch and purse of sovereigns to the retiring 
preacher; and he did not like doing it. It was not that he 
disapproved of the gift, indeed he had given a large dona- 
tion himself, and was particularly anxious that the purse 
should contain a handsome amount; but he did not like 
presenting it in his own person to the man whom he had 
almost charged with dishonesty. There was a good deal of 
delicacy of feeling underneath Matthew Derrick’s lion-like 
exterior; and it was decidedly with outraged susceptibilities 
that he prepared to make the laudatory speech that was ex- 
pected of him, and to make the presentation of the congre- 
gation’s farewell gifts. 

To most people his manner seemed much as usual; it was 
often rather gruff and formidable; but Andrew made a 
quick comment upon it in Dr. Fleming’s ear “What ails my 
father? He’s not speaking from his heart a bit. And look 
at W’'edderburn.” 

Dr. Fleming shrugged his shoulders and twitched his eye- 
brows in a way that he had when he was disturbed. “There’ll 
be a scene presently,” he said. “What made Laurence — I 
say, Laurence, can’t you get Frances out of this?” 

Laurence looked round at him with a strange expression 
in his eyes. But he asked no question. He had seen, as 
Dr. Fleming and Andrew had seen, the extraordinary ges- 
ture with which Silas Wedderburn had received the opening 
sentences of Derrick’s somewhat faltering speech. He had 
half started up, wrung his hands together as if in argument, 
then seated himself again in a cowering attitude with both 
elbows on his knees and his hands pressed over his face. It 
was an incongruous attitude, as of shame or humility, to be 
taken in the presence of those who were complimenting him 
and crowning him with honor. The audience, in general, 
took the exhibition of feeling for a singular modesty and 
natural grief at leaving Eushton, but the audience was 
composed of simple folk. Those who knew Silas Wedder- 


THE PRESENTATION. 


331 


burn’s nature saw that there was something more than this. 
Even Miss Wedderburn was looking grave. 

Laurence rose from his seat and made his way to the 
class-room door, which was partially screened by a green 
curtain, behind which he found Frances, who was standing 
well out of sight, but in a place from which she could get 
a good view of her father. 

“Don’t you think we had better come away?” Laurence 
whispered to her. 

“No! what for?” said Frances in amaze. 

“It’s so dull,” he said, . hesitating to give her the true 
reason of his thoughts. 

“Dull! No, it isn’t dull; but isn’t it a little — strange?” 

“How strange?” 

“People seem unnatural, somehow. I suppose because 
they are at high tension. Mr. Derrick’s not a bit like him- 
self. And — my father, I don’t think — he — likes it, at 
all.” 

“Come away then.” 

“No, no, I mean -to stay to the end.” 

Laurence fell back; he could say no more. But he re- 
mained behind her, watching Wedderburn over her head; 
and wishing himself and the whole company well out of the 
business. For it began to be borne in upon him that there 
would be trouble before the end. Silas Wedderburn was 
waxing dangerous beneath the monotonous sentences which 
Matthew Derrick was piling above his head. 

The end of the deacon’s speech approached at last. 

“And in token of the love and respect which your people 
bear to you and in the hope that they may be permitted to 
wish you God-speed, and to show in a substantial manner 
our regards for yourself and our gratitude for your ministra- 
tions, we beg of you, sir, to accept from us the gold watch 
with a suitable inscription which has been subscribed for by, 
I believe, every member of your congregation, and by sev- 
eral other admirers who are not members; and also this purse 


332 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


which contains fifty sovereigns, and a check for one hun- 
dred pounds as well.” 

Mr. Derrick read the last few sentences from a paper. 
The amount took a good many of his hearers by surprise. It 
was never known how much, exactly, Mr. Derrick himself 
had given, but the greater part of the hundred pound check 
was generally ascribed to him by people who knew best. 

There was vehement applause at the end of the speech. 
Then the gold watch was produced, solemnly exhibited in 
full sight of the audience, and laid on the table in front of 
Mr. Wedderburn. The purse was placed by its side. It was 
noticed that he made no effort to handle his new posses- 
sions; he kept his hands over his face and did not even look 
at them. The people waited almost breathlessly. They 
were rather accustomed to “sensations” when Mr. Wedder- 
burn preached; they expected now to hear something over- 
whelmingly eloquent, heart-searching, pathetic. Two or 
three of the women had got their handkerchiefs ready when 
Silas Wedderburn arose from his chair. 

He arose — a strange, gaunt figure; for he had grown thin 
lately and the lines of his tall frame seemed oddly angular; 
his face white and the dark eyes burning with passion un- 
derneath the stormy brows, the long hands thrust out as 
though to put away from him some suggestion of evil, some 
temptation of the devil. 

The first words he uttered bore witness to his mood. 

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” he thundered — and then 
stood still. There was a strange thrill in the audience. 
Women settled themselves in their seats uneasily; men look- 
ed at each other as if they thought either that the minister 
was feigning, or that he had gone stark, staring mad. The 
chairman rose to his feet; Derrick backed a little, so as to be 
out of the way, but did not leave the platform. Sooth to 
say, he and Dr. Fleming both thought that Silas Wedder- 
burn’s mind was unhinged. They waited for his next 
words in unspeakable suspense. Would the man rave, or 
would he explain his startling ejaculation? 


THE PRESENTATION. 


333 


Mr. Wedderburn had let his hands drop to his sides; his 
eyes were on the ground; he looked as if he were collecting 
his thoughts. Suddenly he looked up and spoke. 

It has been mentioned that he had a very fine voice; of 
late its strength and clearness had diminished, its melody 
been marred. IsTow it rose again, as he continued to speak, 
with all the sweetness and beauty of his earlier days; and 
those who had never heard him before, or had heard him 
only in Eushton, now realized that this man had had com- 
mitted to him a most amazing gift, and that the stories 
which had been told of his speeches and sermons in bygone 
days were probably true. He had done much in Eushton, 
but he had never spoken like this before. For the first and 
only time in her life, Frances heard her father at his best. 

He began in low tones that increased in volume as he 
went on. 

“That,” he said, “was the first thought in my mind. Get 
thee behind me— Satan! It seems a strange thing to say 
when you have just shown me this sign of your friendli- 
ness; when you have gathered yourselves together to do me 
honor, and to make me gifts. I am not insensible to your 
kindness; I feel it from the very bottom of my heart, and I 
thank you most sincerely, most heartily, for the love you 
have shown me, and honor that you wish to heap upon my 
unworthy head. 

“If only you knew how great is the temptation to me to 
accept them with love and gratitude, you would not be sur- 
prised to hear me bid Satan depart from me. I would not 
requite your kindness with unkindness, your love with hate; 
I would give worlds, if I had them to give, rather than hurt 
the feelings of any who are here. But — better than gold 
or silver is the honest truth; it is truth that saves a man’s 
soul, and I stand here for truth’s sake to-night.” 

Thence, for two or three minutes, he fell into the preach- 
er’s vein, and spoke of right and wrong, of God’s claim to 
the soul, and the soul’s attitude to God, in burning words 
of eloquent appeal which lingered long in the minds of 


334 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


those who heard him speak. It seemed as if the subject 
had suddenly fired him; he spoke as a dying man to dying 
men that night; and it was impossible to listen and not to 
believe that he was in earnest — deadly earnest, and per- 
fectly sincere. 

And yet — there were men present, there was his daugh- 
ter present — who knew the depths of weakness to which 
this man could sink in his uninspired moments, in times, 
when, as he would have said, he was not upheld by the Hand 
of God. These men listened with eyes cast down, with 
feelings of almost sick revolt at what seemed to them a 
mere show of words, a mere rhetorical display. Not one of 
them believed in Silas Wedderburn’s religion; one of them 
at least, considered it simply a cloak for cowardice and dis- 
honesty. To them it was painful to listen to the minister’s 
rhapsody, beautiful although the words might be; they 
knew, or thought they knew, the speck in that ripe fruit, 
the black core at the heart. And for the daughter’s sake, 
as well as for the faith in which they believed, they stood 
abashed and ashamed. 

‘‘Come away, Frances,” said Laurence, with sternness in 
his tone. 

“No,” she said quietly. “I shall stay to the end.” Then 
she cast one hurried glance backward into his gloomy face 
and there was a strange, tearful sweetness in her own. 
“Don’t you understand?” she said, “Don’t you see what he 
is going to do?” 

No, Laurence did not see; could not imagine; could not 
understand. But as he set himself again to listen, he knew 
that a change had come — the eloquent voice was hushed, 
there was a dead pause, during which no one dared to ap- 
plaud. The audience thought of that night in the chapel 
when the minister had paused in almost the same way, and 
wondered whether his brain and memory had failed him 
once again. But it was not so. He took up the word 
again, after that moment’s pause, but in an entirely differ- 
ent tone. Less sweet, less musical certainly, but shaken by 


THE PRESENTATION. 


335 


an intensity of feeling which no one could fail to under- 
stand. 

“These are my last words to you all,” he said. “That is 
why I have allowed myself to speak once more to you of the 
things that pertain to your peace; to remind you of your 
need of salvation and of the love of God. I shall lift up my 
voice no more, either to you or to others, concerning these 
things. The time I have now will he all too short for me 
to make my peace with God. And I have resolved” — his 
voice grew hoarse and thick — “to put away every earthly 
thing that comes between me and God. 

“Your gifts, my dear friends, I cannot accept; I will 
take no gift from you but prayers. You have been kinder 
— far kinder to me — than I deserve; and God will reward 
you for it. I should be glad, therefore, if you would make 
these gifts of yours, gifts to God instead of to me. Let 
them go to the building of your new chapel. I thank you 
all, my dear friends, very heartily; but I will take nothing 
— nothing from your hands.” 

And here he paused and his face turned whiter, and there 
was a great tumult in the room, some crying “No, no,” and 
others clapping and stamping, and here and there a growl of 
dissatisfaction or something very like a hiss. For Rushton 
folks had been proud of this gift and did not like to see it, 
as they thought, despised. 


336 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


/ 


CHAPTER XL. 

EXPIATION. 

“Does he mean it?” murmured Andrew Derrick into Dr. 
Fleming’s ear. For Andrew, knowing nothing, had caught 
the infection of distrust. 

“I believe to God he does!” the doctor answered back. 
The tone showed how much he was surprised. His sus- 
picions had gone deeper than he knew. As for Matthew 
Derrick, he was staring at Silas AVedderburn, as if he could 
not believe his ears. And Laurence, withdrawn into the 
shadow, laid his hand on Frances’s hand, with his arm half 
around her waist. He felt her trembling, and feared lest 
she should faint. She was quite unconscious of the pro- 
tecting clasp. 

The murmur among the listeners grew loud and deep. 
Several persons rose to protest; blank dismay sat upon the 
faces of the chairman and his supporters. One or two of 
the chief men made a little group round Mr. Wedderburn 
and tried to persuade him to alter his mind. But the min- 
ister only shook his head and waved his hand. Presently 
he came forward a little, as if he wished to be heard, and 
the audience settled itself into dissatisfied silence as he 
spoke. But Silas Wedderburn’s calmness had failed him 
now. He cast one hasty glance round the room, and, for 
the first time, he saw his daughter’s face. He caught her 
eyes blazing into- his own, with an expression of pleasant 
satisfaction — of love, maybe — such as he had never seen 
before. He caught his breath, and his very lips went white. 
He clutched at his neck as if he wanted to loosen the 
clothes that seemed to choke him, and then once more he 
spoke. 

“Oh, brothers and sisters,” he said, “if you but knew the 


EXPIATION. 


337 


torture that it is to me to see your friendly eyes, to- hear 
your kindly words, you would be silent and leave me to die 
in peace. Nay, I must tell you before you go that I am not 
what I seem, that my life has been a lie, that I stand be- 
fore you a coward, a liar, a criminal — guilty of all that you 
think most base and vile!” 

“For God’s sake, stop him,” said Laurence in Dr. Flem- 
ing’s ear. He had quitted Frances’s side to say the words. 
“Don’t you see that the man has gone stark, staring, raving 
mad!” 

Dr. Fleming was on his feet already, on the platform in 
one moment at the minister’s side. And most of those who 
saw him knew what his appearance signified. Mr. Wed- 
derburn was raving — as to that there could be no doubt. 
The doctor laid one hand on the minister’s arm, Matthew 
Derrick came to the other side; between them they tried to 
silence him, to lead him away. He broke loose from them 
easily enough — he had strange strength at that moment — 
and when he spoke again, the whole audience sat as silent 
as if they scarcely dared to breathe. 

“I have been a self-deceiver from the first,” said Silas 
Wedderburn, quite quietly now. “When I first went out 
to the South Seas even, many years ago, I craved to be a 
leader of men. I loved myself, my reputation, my name 
and fame. I thought — vain fool as I was — that the world 
could not do without me. And in the hour of peril, when 
there came a choice as to which should die, myself or my lit- 
tle daughter, I took the first chance myself and left her to 
the mercy of the flames, because I thought my own a life 
too valuable to be sacrificed for a child’s sake. You that 
are fathers and mothers, would you not have striven that 
your child should be saved before yourselves? But I left 
her to die.” 

There was a pause, during which a strange murmur ran 
through the room. The women sobbed; the men held down 
their heads and looked dark. One or two people left the 
place altogether. The air seemed full of tragedy. 


338 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘The child was saved, but not by me,” the tired, dis- 
couraged voice went on. “She was brought up by others — 
not by me. I did not care — I cared for nothing but success. 
I preached for vanity; praise was the breath of life to me, 
and I ceased to struggle with my faults; or to try, in my 
heart of hearts to serve my God. I lived extravagantly, 
self indulgently; I was burdened with debt when I came 
here. And when your money, my friends, came into my 
hands, I tell you I paid my debts with it instead of handing 
it over to your treasurer; I stole it from you as a thief — a 
thief in the night. I owe it only to my friends — to men 
like Mr. Corbet and Mr. Derrick — that I am not in the 
county Jail, and branded as a criminal before the world! 

“But I brand myself. I ask for Justice on myself. I call 
God to witness that I repent of my sin — that I pray — that 
I ask you to pray for me. God be merciful to me a sinner! 
So maybe. He will accept — as an expatiation — the shame 
of it, the pain of it — ah, my God! — ^the punishment! ” 

The voice broke in a cry that seemed hardly human. 
The arms of the two men beside him received him as he 
fell backwards. He had spoken for the last time to the 
people of Zion Lane. 

“Let me come to him! Let me speak to him!” said 
Frances, throwing herself upon her knees at his side, and 
hanging over him with such tears, such tender fervor, that 
all who saw her knew the secret of that relationship which 
had been so long concealed. “Father! father!” she cried, 
as he lay flat upon the boards of the platform, while the 
schoolroom was hastily cleared of the crowd by Andrew 
Derrick and one of the deacons, who went about reiterating 
that Mr. Wedderburn had not known what he was saying, 
that he was subject to hallucinations, and the like. “Fa- 
ther, father! speak to me!” Frances cried, with all the cruel 
yearning for one last word which we have all felt or must 
yet feel when those who love us come into the valley of the 
shadow, where they do not even hear our voice or feel our 
hand. Was it not too late for the word of love that she so 
strongly desired to hear? 


EXPIATION. 


339 


There was one last little rally — one last flicker of light. 
He opened his eyes a moment, and looked into Frances’s 
face. 

‘^Child — forgive me,” he said. 

And that was the last word that Silas Wedderbum spoke 
on earth. 

She forgave — ah, yes, she forgave; everyone must needs 
forgive when that last confession has been made, that last 
prayer uttered for his pardon, that last terrible atonement 
offered to the world. He was a man of great gifts, but he 
had marred them all; and, as Laurence Corbet at least, be- 
lieved, the day of his degeneration had begun when he 
found himself not brave enough to lay down his own life 
for his child’s. There had been good in him, but not 
strength enough to meet temptation; and yet it would have 
taken little at one point in his life, to turn him into the path 
where he would surely have grown into a saint. He took 
the lower road — until the hour of his death. 

His friends came about him and carried him back to his 
own house, where Lavinia Wedderbum met them with a 
face of stone. She had not waited for the ending of the 
scene. It had seemed to her too madly fantastic to be 
borne. And when she saw the way in which he was brought 
back to her, she set her lips a little tighter and said only, 
'Tt is better so.” Perhaps indeed it was. 

She would let no one remain with her. She herself did 
for him all that there was to be done. And then she shut 
up the house and mourned alone. But no one ever saw her 
shed a tear. 

And Frances, driven away from her father’s side, clung 
to Laurence, with heart-breaking sighs and tears, and with 
a cry which, even in that hour of darkness, his heart leaped 
to hear; “Oh, Laurence, take me home!” 

His house was her home henceforward, as it had never 
been before; her heart had turned to him of its own accord, 
now that she had no one else in the whole world to love. 
For, in spite of her condemnation of her father’s actions, 
ehe had loved him from her childhood, with the strong si- 


340 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


lent love of a nature which cannot take back what had 
once been given — not even love. 

There was a great gathering at the funeral of Silas Wed- 
derburn. His coffin was covered with flowers, and people 
came from far and near to show their respect for the m.an 
who had dared to confess a fault and to refuse a gift which 
he had not deserved. But little by little the story grew ob- 
scure, and the extenuation of his fault began. It was said 
that his confession meant little save the outpourings of his 
humility; that he had lived a blameless life, and that one 
must not judge a man by his self-accusations, more es- 
pecially in the hour of his death. And when people 
came to Laurence Corbet, or Mr. Derrick, for explanation, 
these two men kept their mouths resolutely shut. There 
was nothing for them to say, they both averred. And in 
time, the world believed them, and Silas Wedderburn’s 
name was reckoned amongst those that bear no stain. 

The watch was sent to Frances, as a memorial of her fa- 
ther, and the hundred and fifty pounds were given, as he 
had wished, to the building of the chapel. Miss Wedder- 
burn took possession, unchallenged, of all the things that 
he had left, and, shortly after his death, vanished from the 
neighborhood and was never seen in it again. The paper 
that she had placed in the lawyer’s hands, caused a good 
deal of stir; and she herself was summoned to give evidence, 
but did not appear. The law-suit dragged on in a weary 
way for many months, but neither Frances nor the Flem- 
ings allowed it to impair their friendship or their happi- 
ness. Lord and Lady Heron remain unreconciled to the 
Hernesdales, but the alienation did not trouble them quite 
so much as perhaps it ought to have done. Chloe and An- 
drew Derrick married, in the hope that the Flemings would 
lose their suit, for Andrew had found work to do that ex- 
actly suited him, and did not want to give it up. And 
Denstone was shut up, while Laurence went abroad. And 
Frances — 

Frances found that she could be content. 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 


341 


CHAPTER XLI. 

CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 

There is a little town on the Italian Riviera, which its 
enemies call dull, and its friends “a haven of peace.” There 
is no band, no pier, no promenade, no casino, no games of 
chance; but there are gardens of lemon-trees and oranges, 
there are vines crimsoned with the sun, there is a wealth of 
roses, of all shades; and on the hillsides there are the gray- 
green olive trees planted on terraces from which you catch 
divine glimpses of the Mediterranean blue. There is a 
rather squalid little Indian town, dominated by a great 
square church, but above the town and looking across it to- 
wards the sea, there are villas (let to English people in the 
winter, to Italians in the summer) half buried in flowers, 
where one can let the world go by very happily in the gold- 
en light of an Italian sun. 

Frances and her husband had got possession of one of 
these villas for a month or two, and when they were tired 
of loitering about the garden, they would saunter up that 
sunny road towards the hills, catching fresh peeps of beauty 
on the way, and almost forgetting that the February fogs 
and rains were still rioting at home, and people were shiver- 
ing over fires and clothing themselves in sables. Here the 
air was delicious except at sundown or on a rare day of 
clouds, and the scent of violets was everywhere, for they 
grew in every nook and cranny of the walls. 

“Laurence, you lazy boy, come out for a stroll with me,” 
Mrs. Corbet said, laying a hand on her husband’s shoulder, 
as he basked in the sun upon the terrace before the house, 
smoking a cigarette and looking out towards the sea. 

“With all the pleasure in life, my queen.” 

“I don’t like that name,” said Frances, bending a little 


342 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


to kiss him before he rose; “it sounds as if I were so domi- 
neering.” 

“And don^t you domineer? Haven’t I always to do what 
you tell me? And am I not always obedient?” 

“I shouldn’t care for you very much if you were!” Fran- 
ces made answer with a nod and smile. 

“Ah, you are still the Frank I know. Come along little 
girl, and tell me what you have been doing all the after- 
noon.” 

“I have been reading letters.” 

“Letters? None for me?” 

“No, all for me this time. I have something to tell you, 
Laurence.” 

They had turned out of the gate and were walking along 
the scented sunny road; Frances carried a scarlet parasol, 
and she dropped it a little so that he should not see her 
face. 

“Have you, dear? Anything important?” 

“Eather. To begin with — Charlie and Milly have made 
it up with Lord and Lady Hernesdale.” 

“Oughtn’t you to put it the other way round? I am sure 
Lady Hernesdale would do so.” 

“Well, I suppose the advances came from her. But don’t 
you see what that means?” 

“Means? It might mean many things. But I suppose 
— with Lady Hernesdale — hum! My dear Frank, be worthy 
of your name, and say at once that the lawsuit is over, and 
that the Flemings have won the day!” 

“You knew it already!” 

“Not a word of it, but you were trying to be diplomatic, 
which is not like you. Well, that’s a good thing, anyway. 
What a rage Andrew will be in!” 

“You are quite sure you don’t mind, Laurence?” 

“Mind? What have I to mind, my dearest? I should 
have been very sorry indeed to turn out the Flemings. In 
fact, if judgment had been given for us, I suppose we should 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 


343 


have had all the bother of having to arrange a deed of gift, 
and give it them back again.” * 

He said it with a perfectly matter-of-fact air, and Frances 
raised the edge of her parasol to show that her face was 
bright. 

‘TTou see, my dear child, you hadn’t a bit of a claim to the 
place,” said Laurence practically. “If anybody had, it was 
myself, as I was a nearer relation than the Flemings; but I 
always begged my aunt to leave it to them. They were her 
own kinsfolk. They were poor. They were deserving — I 
always hoped to see Chloe queening it in the big drawing- 
room, and Milly cutting capers on the terrace. I suppose 
now that she is Lady Heron she does not cut capers any 
more!” 

“Oh, Laurence, I am so glad that you are not fond of 
money!” 

“I am very fond of what it can do for us sometimes! I 
don’t think we should be here without it, Mrs. Corbet. But 
a love of money for its own sake is a form of insanity to 
which I don’t think I am prone. Well, what more news?” 

“Oh, nothing much. Lady Hernesdale came down to 
Milly as soon as ever the result was known, and made 
friends with her. And Lord Hernesdale simply worships 
the baby.” 

Laurence chuckled. “Fancy the stiff old Earl with a 
baby grandson. And I’ll be bound that he is at Milly’s 
feet.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Fleming says almost as much. And she tells 
me that Andrew pretended to be very unhappy and says he 
was induced to marry Chloe under false pretenses, but that 
he is really growing as fond of King’s Leigh as Chloe, and 
that he will now have plenty of time to finish his book.” 

“I’m glad of that.” Then, after a pause; “You’ve some- 
thing else to tell me, have you not?” 

“How dreadfully quick you are, Laurence! I never can 
keep anything from you.” 

“I see it in your face, if it does not come from your lips.” 


344 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


“I was lowering my parasol on your side, expressly tliat 
you should not see. But Laurence, this is something more 
serious— it is a letter from old Mr. Derrick.’’ 

«Ah!” 

He knew by her tone that it was something that con- 
cerned the memory of her father; and he put his hand into 
her arm, so as to draw her a little closer to himself. They 
sat down on the low wall on one side of the road, and there 
in the sunshine Frances drew out a letter and handed it to 
her husband. 

It set forth in Mr. Derrick’s crabbed, formal way that 
subscriptions to the new chapel had come in so lavishly, 
that they were able to spend more money over its interior 
decoration than they had at first anticipated. And it was 
the desire of the congregation that something should be 
placed in their house of worship which should especially re- 
call Silas Wedderburn to their minds, and that part of the 
money which had been collected as a gift to him should be 
used in that way. He wished to know whether Mrs. Corbet 
approved of this idea and he sent a design for an oak pulpit 
and reading-desk which it was proposed to place in the 
building. They were simple, but well designed, and the 
nature of the gift seemed appropriate, seeing that Mr. 
Wedderburn had been so well-known as a preacher in the 
town. 

“Do you like it?” Laurence asked. 

“I like their kindness,” Frances said. “I can’t help feel- 
ing as if my father would rather that his memory were not 
perpetuated in Eushton. He will live in the hearts of 
those that loved him — that is enough.” 

“Yes, but I think you must not refuse, dear. You would 
hurt Matthew Derrick — and we must not hurt him. If 
you have no other reason, accept his proposal. And I am 
not sure that you will not like it in the end. It will remind 
everyone of the best part of him, of the good that I am 
sure he tried during part of his life to practice, of the 
strength which came to him in the end.” 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 


345 


“I will remember that,” said Frances, and the tears were 
in her eyes, as she gazed out at the lustrous, violet-tinted 
sea. 

They had not noticed that as they conversed, a black fig- 
ure of somewhat austere aspect, was walking up the hill 
towards them at a slow but steady pace. They were made 
aware of it by the fact that when the lady in black had ap- 
proached them, she made a resolute pause, and looked them 
straight in the face. And then they saw that it was La- 
vinia Wedderburn. 

Frances drew back in positive affright and horror. ‘Lau- 
rence, let us go,” she said hurriedly starting to her feet. 

‘T trust,” said Miss Wedderburn sourly, “that you will 
be good enough to listen to me for a minute or two.” 

“Yes, listen to her, Frances,” said her husband. 

His quick eyes had grasped the fact that Miss Wedder- 
burn was very thin and very shabby; she looked like a per- 
son who had reached the last limit of respectable poverty. 
Her beaded mantle was brown and half denuded of its 
beads; her boots were burst, her gloves in holes, her bonnet 
a mere wreck of crushed ribbons and flowers! Laurence 
was sorry for her. But Frances’s eyes Avere dimmed with 
tears and she could not see the poverty that showed itself in 
every detail of her cousin’s dress. 

“I cannot listen to her,” she declared, “she has done her 
best to ruin the lives of everyone she came across. Think 
of the way in which she behaved to you aunt, Laurence; and 
then to the Flemings, and last of all to my dear, dear fath- 
er. She embittered his last days and she poisoned his life, 
in a way that I can never, never forget.” 

“Nevertheless, my darling,” her husband whispered in 
her ear, “you must be just. She Avants help; Ave cannot let 
your father’s cousin starve.” 

“Oh, if she Avants money, give it to her,” said Frances, 
listlessly, and sitting doAvn upon the low stone Avail again, 
she hid her face in her hands. Laurence turned and look- 
ed the waiting Avoman full in the face. 


346 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


‘T4rs. Corbet will hear you,” he said, '^if you have any- 
thing to say; she will help you, if you require help, to the 
best of her ability; but you must remember that she does 
not desire your companionship, nor even — ^your acquain- 
tance.” 

“I am sure I do not want to trouble her with either,” 
said Miss Wedderburn, in a tone of perfect coldness. “I 
have something to say, however, and I shall be very glad to 
say it now. I heard that you were here, and I thought I 
would come on — ” 

"All the way from England?” said Mr. Corbet, in some 
surprise. 

The woman hesitated a little, and a red flush rose in her 
thin cheeks. 

"No,” she said, "only from Monte Carlo.” 

Mr. Corbet nodded silently. Now he understood her 
plight. 

"I heard yesterday of the Judgment in the law-suit. It 
is given in favor of the Flemings, as I might have known 
that it would be. You will remember that under Miss 
Kettlewell’s will I am entitled to an annuity. That will 
now being in force, I wish to claim my little income once 
again.” 

"You wish to take money,” said Frances, suddenly rais- 
ing her head, "from the people whom you tried with all 
your might and main to injure?” 

"It is not their money,” said Miss Wedderburn, "it is 
money that Miss Kettlewell left to me. I should like to 
transmit my address to them; that is all. Their lawyer can 
forward me the quarterly remittances.” 

"It would be better, I think,” said Laurence, "if we were 
to pay you the annuity; it would come to the same thing in 
the end.” 

"Do you mean — pay it out of your own pocket?” asked 
the haggard woman in the road. 

"Well — yes. Better than that you should ask the Flem- 
ings for it.” 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 


347 


‘‘But it is my right/’ said Miss Wedderburn. '‘I have al- 
ways stood upon my rights. I have not asked people to 
give me anything. I will have the money that Miss Ket- 
tlewell left to me. But if you like to supplement it, I shall 
not object. I am growing old and weak; and I have had 
bad luck lately — ” 

“If I give you anything, I shall make it a condition that 
you leave off play,” said Laurence. 

“Who told you that I played?” she asked, looking de- 
fiantly in his face. “No one knows me at Monte Carlo — 
how can you tell?” 

“I am sure of it. But if you do not, then you will not 
mind giving me the promise.” 

“I shall give no promise. The luck may change,” said 
Miss Wedderburn, in an odd inward voice. 

“I am afraid we can do nothing for you then.” 

“Then I will write myself to Mrs. Derrick, said Lavinia 
composedly. “Oh, you see I know the news — I know 
that she is married, and that Lady Heron has a baby, and 
all the rest of it. Who would have thought little Milly 
born to be a Countess by and by! I will write to them, and 
give them my address, and ask for the arrears. It is what 
I have a right to, and I always get my rights.” 

“Don’t do that,” said Frances, suddenly rising from her 
low seat. “We will make it up to you. Don’t apply to 
Mrs. Derrick. We will pay you Miss Kettlewell’s annuity 
—double.” 

Laurence half smiled. But he did not interfere. 

For a moment, a bright light gleamed in Lavinia Wed- 
derburn’s eyes. Then it disappeared; she shook her head. 

“I would rather have Miss Kettlewell’s annuity,” she 
answered. “But you are very kind. I will tell you where 
I am staying and you can write to me if you like. I will 
think over what you say.” 

She told them the name of her lodging in Monte Carlo, 
but she gave no definite answer about the annuity. Lau- 


348 


A VALUABLE LIFE. 


rence knew that she was hoping to get money from both 
sides. 

“Well, I must go now,” she said, “I want to get back to 
my hotel — I am going to stay the night. Good-bye, Fran- 
ces.” 

She put out her hand, but Frances did not respond. Miss 
Wedderburn uttered a little laugh. 

“You do look like Lady Emmeline’s portrait still,” she 
said. “I don’t wonder at Miss Kettlewell’s infatuation. I 
suppose you have not troubled to find out the reason for 
it.” 

“The reason?” said Laurence, eagerly. 

“Yes, the reason. Why did you never ask my cousin the 
maiden name of his wife, and of his wife’s mother. His 
wife’s mother was Lady Emmeline Heron. That is the 
reason why Frances resembles her grandmother.” 

“Is this true?” 

“Perfectly true. You can ascertain it for yourself any 
day. See, I have written out the names for you on this scrap 
of paper. Lady Emmeline made an unfortunate marriage, 
and had one daughter, who married worse and fell into 
great poverty. She came back to England, long after Lady 
Emmeline’s death, and died rather suddenly at Sudbury. 
My cousin Silas married her daughter.” 

“This is curious indeed. It explains the likeness,” said 
Laurence. And to himself he said also that it explained 
certain marked characteristics of his wife’s, which in no 
way resembled those of the Wedderburns. 

“And now,” said Miss Wedderburn, in her coldest voice, 
“I have put it into your power to say that Frances is as well 
descended as the Flemings. She is a cousin of the Hernes- 
dales.” 

She turned and went down the hill, in the shining sun- 
shine. As she turned a corner, she stepped into the shadow 
which was gathering thickly on the lower levels of the hills. 
The symbolism struck Frances as she stood with her hus- 
band in the light; and suddenly she thrust the papers that 


CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN. 


349 


she had been holding into Laurence’s hand and ran down 
the hill. 

"Cousin Lavinia,” she said, "I can’t let you go like this. 
"Tell me before you say good-bye that you think of us 
kindly, and that you will let us help you if we can.” 

am very ready to be helped,” said Miss Wedderburn, 
in her indifferent voice. "I am extremely poor.” Frances 
pressed her purse into her cousin’s hand — she knew that it 
was well filled. 

"Thank you, my dear. You must excuse me if I call 
you ^my dear.’ It is for the last time, perhaps. You know 
when all is said and done” — she turned away her face — "I 
loved your father, Frances.” 

And Frances kissed her before she went back to Laurence 
and the glimmering heights. 


THE END. 


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